"Just crickets and owls and squirrels crashing through the undergrowth, louder than traffic," she sighs, with a wry twitch of a smile. She lets herself lean against him, just a little.

She should go home, get a hotel, sweep some shattered glass into a pile.

But instead here she is, looking at the way their fingers still fit together over all these years.

"There are some calls I need to make."

That's a simple fact. She can't leave the place wide-open, questionably safe, the hair-trigger alarm ready to shriek at friend or foe alike. But she looks up him through her lashes, through the tangling frizz of her hair.

"Can we swing by mine--? I could pack a bag."