As he sat beside her, she felt herself very aware of the slight space between them. He'd sat close, that was a start. She'd ignored the start of his lecture as inconsequential, one of the many habits she'd picked up over her various encounters with him.
"Casablanca is one of the greatest films ever made," she informed him with conviction. "Now shut up and watch it," she instructed, smirking slightly to soften her words. She turned her attention to the screen as the opening monologue began. She found herself suddenly impatient with it. She knew the damn thing by heart, and would have much rather skipped forward. She wanted to see his face when Rick saw Ilsa for the first time. She wanted to see if he reacted to Time after Time. Most of all, she wanted him to see the end, to see Rick force Ilsa onto the plane. If that didn't elicit a reaction out of him, nothing would.
The space between them absorbed her attention for a brief time. She alternated between feeling that he was entirely too close, making her want to draw away, and that he wasn't close enough. The space between them would go from feeling like a vast chasm to the barest breath without her seeming to realize the different. She found herself absurdly conscious of every movement he made, no matter how slight. Her posture became a bit rigid, as she fought the warring impulses to draw away and draw nearer, instead attempting to focus on the film. It was a classic for a reason. It might not hold her attention completely, but it would help move them on to the next moment, and that was what their relationship had become. Making it to the next moment. She didn't want him to go, but having him near was so damned difficult.