When Lisa bustled off to the kitchen, Noah took a moment to readjust himself, grateful he wore his trousers a bit on the loose side. Tight ones would've been a misery.
He settled onto the sofa and found a position that was relatively comfortable without making his erection prominent. For a moment he had the adolescent urge to cover himself with a pillow; he'd done that before when younger. It never fooled anyone anyway.
He could hear Lisa clattering around in the kitchen. He had another moment of wistfulness at the domesticity of it; he'd been alone for a long time, and he'd missed it. Spatula was too quiet.
Lisa padded back into the room, her now-bare feet silent on the rugs. She bore a tray, and set it on the coffee table in front of them, then took a seat on the sofa. He watched her smooth her skirt, watched the deft movements of her hands as she prepared tea, watched the heavy fall of her curly hair, watched the play of light across her skin.
He straightened and took the cup and saucer from her. "I sometimes feel like a fake citizen for liking tea better than coffee. I can drink it, if there's nothing else, but I much prefer tea."