Re: Sitting area; sofa
The words were so very man of him (in her opinion), and she chuckled softly, that same wine-deep sound. "Skin needs care, just as anything else does in order to reach the best of what it can be." She smiled. "Besides, dry skin is itchy." Her fingertip tapped twice on the back of his hand before she pulled away again.
She sat back when she realized how warm he was, the flush and sheen on his skin, and she frowned. Her knees were still tucked over his thigh, but the rest of her body leaned away at a shallow angle. The frown was mostly concern, and she tucked her sleeve around her hand again to wipe carefully at the side of his face. "We were all young." She didn't block his view of the tabletop, but she blotted her sleeve against the side of his neck. "And of course they can. But those scars end up inside." And then softer. "You're a writer... you should know that."
She had her own opinions about leaving his stories behind. Though they were still strangers, she didn't want him to lose any part of himself. And she considered his writing to be a part of him, no matter that she was his muse and the words were hers. "They're for you too." He shifted back, hand near his face, and it gave her the opportunity to run her cool sleeve over the other side of his neck. But her touch stuttered, a tremor against his collarbone, and then she froze. With his eyes closed, she stared at him, though what she was seeing was far, far away. "I don't know," she whispered, like the admission was quills and needles in her throat.