Her arms wrapped themselves tightly around his waist and she pressed herself into his chest, savouring that feeling of utter safety and devotion. It didn't always happen so when it did, she appreciated the fuck out of it. Abi took a moment to enjoy it before leaning back and looking at his hand; the knuckles were soft and bruising already, bright pink under the dim light of the bar.
"Stood up for me, I was gonna say," she replied and kissed the tips of his fingers. "Does your hand hurt really bad? Can you wiggle your fingers?" she asked, not wanting to risk broken phalanges on him. He typed way too much to use the use of his hand. She was still a little shaken but her heart swelled with affection for Hemingway and his actions, as rash as they were.