Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
For all the give and take, Seven took to the dimple of that smirk in her cheek like he was a drowning man to water. It straightened up his spine and worked out some of the slope between his shoulder blades. Just like Marta was feeling what she wanted to feel, or perhaps need to - Seven was a slope at the mercy of her hands, unseen. The denim of his jeans slid over puckered slits in the vinyl that gaped indecently.
"Breakfast for dinner," he agreed, nodding his chin ever-so towards the lapels of his jacket. He sat up and his shoulders were still broad, and he drank in her nod, and he liked it. "Extra crispy, obviously." One corner of his mouth turned up in a good-natured smirk, but he focused his eyes down toward the tabletop. Hello Formica, ever intently.
"Sounds good. I rarely ever go out to eat anymore," he admitted this last as if it was a bit of realization on his own end, musing about the fact that he only ever cooked for himself and Sawyer. And even at the same time, two of his fingers busied themselves by plucking at the stray threads around the wrist of his burgundy flannel shirt.