llorando en la inocencia de un ritmo juguetón

[attitude]

She doesn't say anything on the way back to her apartment. No sound offered save for the click of her heels and the rumble of her bike's engine, which dies as she neatly parks to one side of her reserved spot in the garage. Years of traveling across millions of miles, and never once has she invited a man back to her home, to an apartment she could arguably call hers and hers alone. There isn't any fear that stems from extending this invitation, no greater meaning that she's trying to surface.

It simply contrasts in its normalcy.

The lock clicks with a jangle of her keys, and Faye turns around, one hand groping for the handle as the other traces a line down the center of his jacket. Once he steps inside, he'll be able to see everything from her life on display, from case files for bounty heads strewn over the coffee table to evening dresses carefully draped over chairs in case of a sudden need.

Struck with a thought, Faye offers a small, amused grin.

"I'm Faye, by the way."

Comments

[concluded]

He breathes.

He steps in, filtering in the apartment around him, taking in out of the corner of his eye some laundry needing washed, takeout boxes in the trash, signs of a life either too busy for mundane chores or too filled with more interesting things. He sees the case files, knows immediately that she's an investigator of some kind. It isn't a far stretch to believe. She's perceptive, enough that she'd managed to crack House like a mirror.

Now she's got to deal with her bad luck.

Slipping his jacket off, he tosses it over the nearest piece of furniture, joined by his cane. He can get around the few rooms of an apartment, even a strange one, without. "House," he says, voice distracted, before he cups her face in both hands and kisses her again, like a long, deep drink of water. Something he's been wanting for a long time, something he hasn't had. It's clumsy passion, but not for lack of experience; only for lack of the finesse of detachment.