A coffee cup plunks down on the table in front of her, but she's on a roll and if she doesn't finish this sketch right now she'll forget the image of the fortress in her mind and have to agonize tomorrow over those maddening elusive little details hovering just at the fringes of her consciousness.

(hey, he says, his half-smile softer than usual out of the corner of her eye; cream and a vanilla shot, right?)

Arthur pulls up a stool beside her and leans over the table, hands clasped in font of him, patient as he waits for her to reach a lull in her art. She smiles a little, still focused on the paper; she's found it hard to meet his eyes after that last—well, she doesn't really want to dwell on their last lesson's visit to London.

(thanks; how'd you know? Oh—and could you grab that eraser for me?)

When he passes it to her his hand slides along her palm and it jars her, sends a shiver up her arm and as much as she'd like to contain it her attention is no longer on the drawing in her hands.

(I pay attention, he says, 's what I'm here for)

The eraser sits forgotten in her palm. She doesn't realize she's holding her breath when he brings his fingers up close to her face, brushes her cheek, the barest ghost of contact as he tucks a lock of hair behind her shoulder.

(my dreams aren't so different from yours, he says, if you pay attention to the people in them)

He kisses gently, but it rocks her to her toes.