“Let’s hope for moderate,” he tells her – moderate sounds like it would be a victory, and he’s hearing nothing that indicates it could be. But two nights, that’s not so bad – he’s already thinking three in his head, for a margin of, something.
His head is already shaking when he hears the tone, hears ‘can’t’ – the bag drops mutely to the ground, his forearm against her hip when his hand is free of the strap, fingers slipping under her shirt at the small of her back to try and find some skin to stroke his thumb against. “Don’t – it’s okay.”
“Just, try to be safe.”
A huff. Air pushes past her teeth, her mouth twitches into something of a smile. “I know.” There’s nothing physically dangerous about the upcoming scenario that has her worried- but the fact that he thinks that there could be has the tension rolling off of her shoulders as she steps into him, hand snaking around his back.
“I’m pretty sure all I have to worry about is bruised pride,” Maria says, dusting her lips along the line of his jaw, turning her head until she can find his mouth. “It’s curable, I’m almost positive, by a night out and a good bottle of wine–”