“So very busy,” he nods; very busy trying to feel busy, and trying very hard not to actively wait, or think about a 2 and all the ways he could help make that a 7 or 8… the papers are negligible now that the real endgame is here, “The distraction’s most welcome though.”
Maria’s so boneless and pliable, soft in his arms – he finishes pushing at his things and braces his arm against her back, takes her weight and pitches slightly to left so he can reset them a little lower, off the headboard, curling back into her and bringing them down gently.
“Sorry,” he mutters,
Maria’s shifted with him, movements more languid and purposeless than his more pointed ones, one hand slipping upward to drift toward the nape of his neck. Already his presence has proven to be far more relaxing than anything else she could have thought of ( barring more alcohol, which just sounds like a nightmare at this point ), as evidenced by the warmth seeping into her side where they’re connected.
“This is better.” Than the hotel room with its cold white sheets, bleached blank and sterile, than tangle of reporters waiting for them outside, cawing like crows and looking for that first drop of blood in the water. Her fingers move gently against his skin, drawing slow circles against his hairline.