Sharon leans into his hand, a pleased hum rumbling in the back of her throat as her eyelids flutter shut. She's never been one to spend much time sorting through her feelings—if she bothers with it at all—but it feels less daunting to search for something specific, for a feeling not her own. In his presence, in his arms, it's easier.

Her tongue peaks out from between her lips, brows furrowed, as she concentrates. It's like sorting through a hundred threads, many of them worn and familiar, but it doesn't take long to find the piece that sticks out. A need unlike any she's felt before, similar enough to hunger but one that felt impossible to satisfy. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his cape. A lifetime of it would drive her mad, she thinks.

"And you feel this all the time?" In that way, and perhaps only that way, it's like her rage. She opens her eyes, an empathetic shine to them, "Can it ever be satisfied?"