There are certain things Altaïr cannot change about himself, and one is the way that he always, always views the world through the lens of his work. There's not a Summoned he's met yet who he hasn't evaluated along the terms of whether they could kill him or not, and how easily. (With her, the answers are "yes" and "very.") When Diana slides her hand beneath his shirt, there's a part of him that thinks of how easily she could also slide a knife into him were she so inclined.

Just this once, he's not bothered by it at all. Something about the feel of her thumb on his hip, though, distracts him from what they're doing. Altaïr doesn't so much stop as he pauses, his breath warm against hers as he looks at her beneath low lids. His interest has hardly been unclear, but there's a mix of intensity and vulnerability in his eyes; whatever she wants to do, however she wants to touch him, she has his permission.

The moment seems to stretch out before time snaps together again, and he trails his lips over her cheek and down her neck toward her bare shoulder like he wants to taste all of her, like he wants to lose himself with her.