"We can't have that." Her tone is solemn, her smile irrepressible. "Who'll move my couch when it gets here?"

She sinks back down to flat feet, letting go her grasp but not taking her hands off him. Her hand drags down his chest idly, her eyes following its path. She isn't really trying to start anything-- certainly not in the kitchen-- but it's hard to want to pull away.

"I guess we'll eat at the table? We could picnic on the living room floor but I still need a new television, too." More to pick up when they're out. She wants the dumbest, least-connected one money can buy. Her smile widens a little.

"We're stuck roughing it 'til then."