Luther's still aware of the other people in the cab, in a distant sort of way, but he can't bring himself to glance over at them and puncture this illusion. If he just pretends that they're the only two people here, it's like the rest of the world fades away, and the only thing that matters — the only thing he notices — is Allison in his arms, the warmth of her voice, and what he could imagine is her pulse pounding in the inches between their bodies. And his mouth is close enough to her ear that when he answers, it's for her ears alone.

Her question is another lifeline; it's something for him to distract himself with and hang onto, to think about and try to set his words down in an orderly line to answer her.

"Some of it, you're not cleared to know." A touch of dry humour, the truth but also teasing. His thumb absentmindedly traces the arch of her ribs in the fitted bodice, before he remembers and makes himself stop. This. They don't do this. He's never had this, as much as he'd wanted it, dreamt of it for the better part of a decade, hardly dared consider he might, someday, be able to touch her.

"There wasn't really any time for sightseeing." The trip and itinerary had been pared down to the bare necessities, cut to the bone, with no extra time in the city. If he'd known he was still going to cross paths with Allison, he'd have fought harder to make it a longer jaunt, a proper week-long stay on the west coast before his duties at the mansion inevitably called him back.

"I got in yesterday, and got to check out Grand Central Market for dinner, and had some really good ramen. And then today has mostly been meetings with Dad's contacts, before the museum opening. It's been pretty boring. I wanted to go to the Last Bookstore, but there wasn't time."

He's regretting not fighting for that week now, for so many reasons.

Mainly this one reason.