Re: Sitting area; sofa
Did she believe in random? She wasn't quite certain that she did. There were always so many reasons for things to happen. Even the things that might not seem like a true cause and effect. So maybe there was a reason he was a writer now...
He continued to move like he was sick or in pain. Like something was hounding him, haunting his breaths. The perspiration was easy enough to see, the way it caught the firelight and gave his skin that wet sheen. He slipped to the floor and the way he moved caught a fishhook of concern behind her ribs. The sleeves of the robe were voluminous enough that when she reached out an arm, the cuffs were well over her wrists, allowing her to wrap the soft material around her hand and carefully, slowly, swipe along his hairline.
She let her hand drop away again then, leaning on it to keep herself angled toward him, a sentinel perched over his shoulder as he began to write. She listened to his story evolve, giving little indication if he was close to an actual biography or not. "Write the screenplay," she confirmed with a smile, calling forth gold-plated statuettes. "Only you can do it justice." It was, after all, his story. And hers, at least until you scratched beneath the surface of it.
His question. She leaned forward more, folding herself in half as if the answer was pressing along her spine. It brought her face closer to the sofa's cushion, to his shoulder, her eyes closing again. "...both."