There's a crazy sudden, very strong, blast of wind. At least she thinks it's wind, even as she's sure somehow, that it doesn't just blow past and around her, but slams straight through her. Warm, and wide. The way sunshine in the full of summer falls through the thickest of bright emerald leaves on Sherwood trees older than the oldest people and stories she's ever heard. Alive and more beautiful than words can contain.

A startling, confusing thing all in itself. Causing her to breathe in and blink. Right before there are hands being thrust between them, startling her and seizing her shoulders. Before the gold of Caspian's hair is cut with the off-white of a well-timed cowboy hat suddenly blocking a good chunk of the alarming view that widens her blue-grey on the first flush of recognition. With the fact it is Caspian.

Caspian. And Caspian's sun-bright hair. That had been tickling against the skin of her mouth and chin, making her pull back. And see. Caspian's skin. A lot of Caspian's skin. All of Caspian's skin. And no clothing. When she can't even decide if the bigger problem is that she can't remember to breathe, while blinking at him, unable to shift yet, like those horrible moments at home, in court, when she's frozen display, except with, here, with, at Caspian, Caspian, Caspian no longer a frog and incredibly -- and Kate's hands and hat.

Or if she did and it turned out it couldn't be air, it turned into that confused tiny gasp of suddenly all too aware alarm that is rushing warmth to her cheeks like she's suddenly in the middle of a fever, startling her gaze anywhere else but at his hair, hair face, the rise of collar bones and span of a leg right below the hat, and knees. Pulling back startled, even in the swamp of skirts that don't help. But at least aren't. Aren't. Everything they aren't, when they fill up her vision, but can't blot out the race of shock.

She's almost too frantically glad when there's a coat being shoved between them only a second after that. But breathing might take a moment.