watching_you | OOM: Suite 130

She's disappointed, and a little guilty, as she mutters an explanation. "Really. There's thrashing involved. I can't help it."

Regardless, she pulls herself back up into a seated position, swinging her legs to the floor and taking the middle seat, next to him, on the couch. There's several inches of space between them. She folds her hands on her lap and drops her gaze to them, watching as she idly runs a thumb over birthmarks.

"I'm not sure it helps, but the response to your earlier question is 'Probably, yes'."

He leans back, slouching a bit into the corner of the couch, resting his arm on the back. His legs are stretched out and crossed at the ankle and she might notice there's a tiny hole in the toe of his sock.

"I'm guessing you're not in the habit of dragging strange men back to your apartment for tequila and foot rubs." There's a hint of a tease in his voice.

She half-turns her face toward him, cocking an eyebrow.

"And I'm guessing you're not in the habit of being dragged by strange women to strange apartments for tequila and foot rubs. So. Fair's fair."

He regards her with a muted half-smile on his lips.

"You kinda sprang the tequila on me."

"Well, I wasn't expecting foot rubs," she challenges.

There's a pause.

As a much more neutral afterthought, "Not that I minded."

He shrugs a little. "Didn't say I minded the tequila. Just took me by surprise is all."

Veronica angles her face straight again, and stills the hands in her lap. She's looking at -- nothing.

Softly, "I'm just full of surprises."

Mills says nothing.

Instead, he rests a hand on her back, his thumb stroking gently.

In reaction to his touch, Veronica straightens her spine, adjusting her posture. God, this man and his wonderful hands... And she thought she had a thing about touching.

There are still inches between them, but she turns slightly in her seat, curving her body towards him, and that space begins to diminish.

His hand drifts to her shoulder, and he lets the pressure increase, moving up to her neck. Same firm, gentle touch, starting to work on the tension he feels beneath his palm.

Trying not to think about how warm she is to the touch, or how beautiful she looks right now, with her hair falling across her eyes.

Offering comfort, not making a move.

There's a knot or two in there, and though it hurts at first, it's ultimately nice to feel them worked out. She tilts her head to the side, so that her hair falls back over her shoulder, out of his way.

She can't quite look him in the eyes right now. Instead, still slightly dizzy from the drink, she focuses on his shoulder, his arm. A tentative hand reaches up to brush at him, starting at the bunched fabric of his shirt at the elbow, and coming to rest on his bicep.

Later he will wonder just what it was he thought he was doing, but right now, it is instinct that moves his hand.

His fingers massage up the nape of her neck, weaving in her hair. His palm curls around the base of her skull. Gently, ever so gently, pulling her closer.

She allows herself to be pulled, and in fact leans into the movement. Her breath shudders.

On his arm, her one hand clenches, tangling in his shirt; the other lifts to his neck. In a smooth, delicate motion, she runs her thumb along his jawline.

She's close enough she can feel his breath on her face, close enough that her nose is brushing his --

"Wait."

Wait. Wait? Was that -- did she just say that?

Her eyes snap open.

He does as he is told, holding perfectly still. There is a subtle shift in her body language and he relaxes his hold on her, until his fingertips are barely grazing her scalp.

He breathes, savouring her proximity, expecting her to pull away now. He has no real choice but to take each moment as it unfolds.

He closes his eyes and swallows.

"It's just I..."

She doesn't pull back, but doesn't move closer, either. She takes in his face, his expression, and feels her heart pounding.

"I promised I wouldn't..."

It's incredibly difficult to hover like this, like fighting gravity. Bringing her hand around, she brushes his lips, so softly, with her thumb.

"...take advantage."

There's a gentle smile, and his lips part to capture her thumb, holding her captive as he tastes her skin. Just the briefest touch of his tongue.

And then he's the one that's pulling back, his free hand coming up to join the other, brushing her hair back so he can hold her face in his hands. The lines around his eyes deepen as he studies her face.

"You think I wouldn't be here, if it wasn't for the tequila?"

She may as well have stuck her finger in a socket. Everywhere he touches her, her skin tingles with electricity.

Her hands travel to his neck, his chest, taking hold of his shirt collar.

"If you ask me to do this, I will."

She looks him in the eyes, pained.

"Please don't ask."

He nods, his hands leaving her face, stroking down to her neck, coming to rest on her upper arms. She can feel the strength of his hands as he places her apart from him, creating real distance between them.

He never looks away from her face, and he never for a single moment, looks upset at her decision.

"The question was always yours to ask."

Veronica simply nods.

She feels charged up, full of energy that rattles around in her stomach, desperate to escape. Stupid conscience. Swallowing hard, she presses a palm against his left cheek, then as her one concession to being that kind of impulsive this evening, quickly leans in and gives him a tiny kiss on the right one, just outside the corner of his mouth.

Then she moves back, hands and all, disentangling her personal space from his.

He allowed himself to lean into the kiss, just for a moment, and then he's grinning at her as she pulls away.

He pulls himself up out of the couch and rises, disappearing into the kitchen. There's the sound of running water for a moment, and he returns, carrying a tall glass of water.

"Drink," he says, handing it to her.

She takes it with both hands, giving him a lopsided, grateful smile.

"Don't have to tell me twice."

She attacks it with the same enthusiasm she had the shots, earlier.

He watches her drink, and when she's done, he takes the glass back to the kitchen. She hears the water running again, and then silence.

He stands over the sink and drinks from the same glass. Always a good guest, he washes said glass and stands it upside down in the drainer.

He turns around and leans on the counter, thinking face on. "What do you think about Italian food?"

During the time it takes him to drink she takes her time wandering over towards the kitchen area; when he goes to the counter she's across it, taking one of the tall seats.

In response to his question, she shrugs. "I like it fine. Hungry?"

He leans in closer, mock frown on his lips. His answer is a succinct growl, "Yes."

The wild energy she was feeling seems to be contagious.

"I would cook for you, but your fridge is not nearly as well-stocked as you led me to believe."

"Yeah, I meant my bar fridge. Sorry."

She drums her fingers on the counter, and gives him a guilty look.

"I'm living in my world right now, so I try not to keep too much around. Plus I, you know, live above a restaurant."

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