Luther tilts his head and watches Allison lean forward (caught and entranced by the twist of her bare shoulder, the line of her arm as she leans it against the chair; the sloping curve of her spine and the dip at the small of her back).

"What's up?" he asks. There would ordinarily be a prickle of concern at the back of his neck, maybe, except there's no urgency to the way Allison reroutes them. There's just the matter-of-fact, straightforward way she takes charge and takes them elsewhere. Number One wasn't ever actually Number One in practice; even her abilities aside, she could steer him so effortlessly with a word, with a touch, a mere hint of what she wanted, and he'd move mountains to give it to her.

His foot is jittering against the floor of the taxi, bouncing with nervous energy, which he finally notices and then forces himself to be still again. Hands against his knees, spine straight with rigid posture. She's over on the other side of the seat now, there might as well be a wall between them, but the cab still feels too small and cramped and close. Luther considers opening the window for a gulp of some fresh air; his cheeks still heated slightly in a lingering blush, and so he makes himself look away, back out to the street and the passing lights. That dress is a problem. Everything about her is a problem. (The best kind of problem to have.)