"Ugh, you are so bad at black-ops," Shepard mutters, against his mouth, as the moment bleeds and gasps along with her, then kisses him again, surging up as if she had no choice, as if it were simple gravity, and accepting the urge to kiss him was as easy as tilting into free-fall. She's not even sure who's she's talking to, Sam or herself, but then there's no real need to worry about it.

"I should go."

She's not much of a climber, by nature, but she is short which makes monkeys of even the most downwardly-inclined. It's the work of a moment, a boost, a scramble, snatching at the little note, and then hopping down again; heavier than she might, unless he catches her.

Catch her, Sam.