For a moment, she seems to earnestly consider the potential nearby shrubbery would have for concealment, before she recalls all manners of creatures that could be lurking inside – never mind the odds of nettles touching parts of her she would not want nettles to touch. No, he is entirely in the right.
Yet he also touches her with an unexpected tenderness, and it baffles her less that he does so now, and more that she does not wish to reject it immediately. In fact, she finds herself almost curious to know how long he will be able to rein himself to gentleness, before he gives in to other wants – because surely, this cannot be an honest desire he has, to be soft and tender with her, as though the affection that seems to grow like a weed between them is something he longs for just as she does.
She does not step back by much, though she does take his hand again. "That might be for the best."
They are not a long ways away, and while she does not quite rush him, the walking pace has gone from lazily ambling to distinctly goal-oriented. Ever toward her home, where the doorman on nightshift recognises her at once, and seems interested in seeing some form of identification from Faramir until she shuts the matter down. If he asks, he will discover that out of five floors, the top two belong to her, though she only actively uses the topmost one – information that is presented to him as if she does not often encounter people who do not deem this to be the norm.
For all the forcibly modern aesthetic of the building itself, when she unlocks the door and lets him into her home proper, it does seem as though she leans less toward compulsive minimalism and more toward the heavy sort of wooden furniture that must have cost her a small fortune to have restored, if there had been a need. "Make yourself at home –" She brushes another promising kiss against the corner of his mouth, and points him toward the direction of her living room. "I will fetch us something to drink."
Unarguable centre of her living area is a Lannister-red sofa, with a lion's golden claws for feet, and right in the middle of it lies something that looks, for lack of a kinder description, like an uncooked chicken. Whether he deems it a particularly ugly, flesh-coloured pillow among a series of red-and-gold embroidered ones, or something else entirely, he will quickly enough notice that it seems to be most alive and breathing if he approaches, until he is close enough to see the cat unfold, stretching out long legs and yawning, bald ears pointed backward.
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Yet he also touches her with an unexpected tenderness, and it baffles her less that he does so now, and more that she does not wish to reject it immediately. In fact, she finds herself almost curious to know how long he will be able to rein himself to gentleness, before he gives in to other wants – because surely, this cannot be an honest desire he has, to be soft and tender with her, as though the affection that seems to grow like a weed between them is something he longs for just as she does.
She does not step back by much, though she does take his hand again. "That might be for the best."
They are not a long ways away, and while she does not quite rush him, the walking pace has gone from lazily ambling to distinctly goal-oriented. Ever toward her home, where the doorman on nightshift recognises her at once, and seems interested in seeing some form of identification from Faramir until she shuts the matter down. If he asks, he will discover that out of five floors, the top two belong to her, though she only actively uses the topmost one – information that is presented to him as if she does not often encounter people who do not deem this to be the norm.
For all the forcibly modern aesthetic of the building itself, when she unlocks the door and lets him into her home proper, it does seem as though she leans less toward compulsive minimalism and more toward the heavy sort of wooden furniture that must have cost her a small fortune to have restored, if there had been a need. "Make yourself at home –" She brushes another promising kiss against the corner of his mouth, and points him toward the direction of her living room. "I will fetch us something to drink."
Unarguable centre of her living area is a Lannister-red sofa, with a lion's golden claws for feet, and right in the middle of it lies something that looks, for lack of a kinder description, like an uncooked chicken. Whether he deems it a particularly ugly, flesh-coloured pillow among a series of red-and-gold embroidered ones, or something else entirely, he will quickly enough notice that it seems to be most alive and breathing if he approaches, until he is close enough to see the cat unfold, stretching out long legs and yawning, bald ears pointed backward.