Something else. Maybe even that something else which rumbles beneath the surface, every so often, right whenever he thought it might be dead and buried — but it's always still there, looming inconvenient and permanent.
His blue gaze follows Allison's movement; the line of her shoulders, the shift of her hands, the space still left on her bed. Where he could probably sit, and join her.
(So many times as teenagers, he'd sat there on the edge of her bed, shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh and so close that he could feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the soft-worn cotton of their clothing. So goddamned close that his heartbeat had thundered in his skull. Offering comfort. She'd napped against his shoulder, in the old days, or he'd dozed off in her bed while reading a book and while she touched up her nails at the vanity. The way things used to be between them.)
It's an excuse. There's always been an excuse, sidling away and sidestepping the real question.
So: "I could do with a drink," Luther says, instead.
no subject
His blue gaze follows Allison's movement; the line of her shoulders, the shift of her hands, the space still left on her bed. Where he could probably sit, and join her.
(So many times as teenagers, he'd sat there on the edge of her bed, shoulder-to-shoulder and thigh-to-thigh and so close that he could feel the warmth of her skin radiating through the soft-worn cotton of their clothing. So goddamned close that his heartbeat had thundered in his skull. Offering comfort. She'd napped against his shoulder, in the old days, or he'd dozed off in her bed while reading a book and while she touched up her nails at the vanity. The way things used to be between them.)
It's an excuse. There's always been an excuse, sidling away and sidestepping the real question.
So: "I could do with a drink," Luther says, instead.