Re: Sitting area; sofa
"If you don't care for yourself, your words will never be the best. You will wilt, and so will they." It was gentle, but a rebuke. The short time they'd shared had instilled in her a concern for him.
She knew pain, but in the evening by the fire, she was doing her best to ignore it, except in the way that was required in order for her to be his muse. The greater pains, the physical and scarring, were part of what had been temporarily chased away by the liquid in the bottle she'd chosen. Imperfectly, yes, but there was still a distance that allowed her to set aside her own pains to address his (even if he refused to address them). The sleeve of her robe was still cool against his skin, finding overheated skin to press against and stroke gently.
Her hand lifted away suddenly when his head jerked up, her eyes wide with the speed of it, and it hovered there between him, even when she started shaking her head before his declaration was done. "No..." She'd known artists and writers. Creators. She couldn't recall any specific one, but she'd known them. "It's a pass that goes both ways. They need you to be told. You need them to fulfill you. Don't you?" She'd let go of the cuff around her hand, and it had slipped up past her wrist, leaving her fingers bare. She laid her palm to his cheek, skin to skin, and blinked slowly at the clammy contact of it. Sweat-slick or not, it was skin that she touched. "You need each other..." Her thumb stroked at the hinge of his jaw, coaxing him to let the tension there release.