Work Text:
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April 20th, 2012
“I don’t wanna go to Hang Chew’s-”
“Yes, but I am saying ‘Hang Chew’s?’ as in-”
“Sloan, I hear you. I know what you’re asking, and I’m saying I don’t want to go to Hang Chew’s.”
“But you should.”
“Of course I should. That’s why I’m saying –“
“I know what you’re saying. You’re saying- wait…I think I’ve just decided that I don’t want to have this conversation anymore.”
“Just now? You’ve just decided after four minutes of the same question that you’ve exhausted yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Pfft. You call yourself a journalist.”
“No, I’m an analyst. You people stick me in like a goddamn substitute-“
“Wait, are you really exhausted with me? After four minutes?”
“No. After four minutes, I’ve decided that I really don’t want to argue with you, and yet here I am, still, talking to you.”
“Here we are.”
+
Some like to say that Don doesn’t know how or when to implement his smiles or smirks, and that’s nearly true. So often, his smiles are dripping with irritation, and his smirks are full of love. All of this - plus the roundness in his cheeks and a pair of bright brown eyes - makes for quite an enigmatic guy. Who is he really? When is he genuine? What matters to him most? Surely, when he has his lips held in an empty line and his brows are raised all smug, that’s the kind of man he wants to be: hard-working, proud, a bastard, smarter than you.
Even still, much like the sound of a rattlesnake’s tail, he uses his smile in seething and vulnerable moments, wearing it like a warning, a mask of sweetness, poison lurking underneath.
This all makes sense in Sloan’s head. She tried to explain it to MacKenzie once, but MacKenzie was very confused. She isn’t sure it’s supposed to make sense to anyone else, anyway, as it only dawned on her when she noticed that the smiles Don gave Maggie were different from the smiles he offered Jim, which were also different from the smiles he gave Mac, and – of course, ultimately – the smiles that landed on her.
The smiles Don gave to Maggie were often aided by a small chuckle of amusement, and the smiles toward Jim were really just raised eyebrows, so maybe it didn’t count as a smile at all – but that isn’t the point.
The point is, at some time in the last six months, Sloan realized that Don had a smile just for her, and it filled his face – those cheeks and bright eyes – in the most subtle way that she thought maybe she was being mocked, but then she knew he didn’t even realize he was smiling, just like she didn’t realize she was smiling until she walked away from him and noticed the corners of her mouth were turned up.
That may make little sense. It’s best to imagine yourself in a moment with someone – someone lovely, someone you adore but don’t know if you want to adore – and you are laughing together, and when you walk away, you realize that your cheeks hurt, and you have to shake it off because you’re suddenly standing by yourself, grinning like an idiot.
So, yes… the smiles matter a little bit, but… that’s not the whole picture. It is a small colored disc in the mosaic of Sloan’s relationship with Don, and his relationship with her.
Okay.
+
Sloan got an email from Jim just as she changed out of her suit and into her clothes to go home. He was back on the road for the Romney campaign (a short two week docu, not for press - thank God) and he wanted a few notes in response to Romney’s whatever-point plan, and what that plan should include if the candidate wanted to reach the sizeable economic turnover he’s been claiming he will accomplish in his however-many-years plan as president. She started the email candidly on her Blackberry as she got ready to leave for the evening, but somehow, she ended up providing a provisional sixteen-point plan from her laptop.
This left her forty-three minutes behind in her own six-point plan to leave the office at ten o’ seven exactly in order to beat the rain and make it to Hang Chew’s without being soaked. It started raining at 10:23, and so, she decided to wait until the rain let up and she reached a decent stopping point in her plan – which, as established, wound up happening around point sixteen.
As she pulled her wool socks up over skinny jeans and slipped into her cranberry-colored galoshes, there was a knock on the door, and she said, “Come in!” before she saw who it was, and when she saw who it was, she remembered that new rule she was trying to make habit of. The rule where she looked at the glass door so she could mentally prepare herself for who was on the other side – which only needed to be a rule for Don, really, because her heart didn’t pound for Mac and Zane or anyone else – just Don, and – okay, Don was at the door, and being more adamant about that rule could’ve been goddamn helpful.
Still. Don was at the door. Or, rather, inside her office with the door shut.
“You’re here late,” he said.
“You’re here late,” she replied.
“I am.”
“And I’m leaving. Why are you here?”
“You’re here late. I came to see why you’re here late. Good coverage for Elliot tonight.”
“Was it?”
“Was it what?”
“Good?”
“I would much rather work with Elliot because he does this thing where he listens to me, but you are better looking – so let’s call it a draw.”
That’s when Sloan rolled her eyes and told him he should to Hang Chew’s with her – “Hang out and stuff.” - and he said no, which was odd to her, and so she insisted that he change his mind, and it became a riddled conversation she just couldn’t bear any longer.
Then, she realized that Don was smiling, and so was she, and she had to force herself to stop.
And here they are.
“Why did you come in here?” she asks, slipping on her trench jacket.
“I came to ask if you wanted to get a drink with me.”
She tightens the belt on her trench and glares. “I just asked you if-!”
“You asked if I wanted to go to Hang Chew’s to hang out, and I said I don’t wanna go because I don’t want to go hang out at Hang Chew’s. I wanna go get a drink with you.”
“We can get drinks at Hang Chew’s.”
“Do you listen to me when I speak or does it sound like some other language that you aren’t fluent in?”
“I listen to you.”
“Should I learn Japanese?”
“I said I listen to you.”
“Then, when I tell you I don’t want to go to Hang Chew’s, I’m not sure why I have to say it three more times.”
“Hang Chew’s has drinks.”
Don crosses the room and leans against the bookshelf under the window. He folds his arms over his chest, stares at Sloan with shiny brown eyes and raised brows, and Sloan stares at him in return, confused.
“Where’s Grant?” Don asks. “I thought he was coming up tonight.”
“Storm in D.C. He’s grounded. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Sloan,” he says, as if he knows something that she doesn’t, which he clearly does.
“Hang Chew’s-”
“I don’t like Hang Chew’s. It’s a bullshit arena where a handful of our staff goes during certain hours to get cheap food and drinks, and we all end up having emotional confessionals with one another as if it’s all spur of the moment - but they really aren’t spur of the moment, because people only go to Hang Chew’s to confess bullshit to one another under the masquerade of work.”
“You’re saying-”
“I’m saying I don’t want to go to Hang Chew’s. I want to go get a drink with you at a real bar, and I want to have the conversations we should’ve had a long time ago on purpose, not ‘on accident’ on purpose, because that would be the adult thing to do, not the childish thing to do, and really I… Sloan, I think I just might throw myself off a bridge, or, I don’t know, take a job in Atlanta if I don’t man up right now.”
Sloan swallows. This certainly isn’t what she expected. Yes, of course, it would happen eventually, but hell, not tonight. “Hang Chew’s would be cheaper than anywhere else.”
“Do I look like I care about how much the bill is going to be tonight?”
Sloan frowns. “No.”
“Do you want to go get a drink with me at a place as far the fuck away from Hang Chew’s as possible?”
“Yes. Wait.”
“What?”
“Nevermind. Let’s go.”
+
Sloan has a trench coat that ties around her waist and it makes her look like a Russian spy who would also do well as a model if it weren’t for the fact that she wears galoshes and a slouchy wool raspberry-colored cap along with it. Don knows nothing about fashion, and he is sure that Sloan knows everything about fashion, and that fact alone makes him think that she is wonderful. She’s been seen on plenty of Best Dressed pages in whatever-the-fuck magazine, but in the middle of the night, she puts on what makes her comfortable – especially when she’s cold, and especially when she’s spent the better part of her day in front of a camera wearing a Fendi suit and Louboutins.
Either way, Don thinks she looks good, and she knows she looks good, but not in a way that would make him want to knock her down a peg. Really, she is one of the last people who needs to be knocked down a peg. As it were, she is the master of salting self-deprecation into any discussion of her looks and smarts (in equal parts with a smug pride), and up until very recently, she didn’t give a shit about someone knocking her down a peg (or praising her), anyway.
Still, as they ride the elevator down, he can’t help asking for her if she knows Russian. She frowns and asks why, and he says there’s no reason.
He hails the cab, does his best to ignore the whistles at Sloan from a passerby, and then holds the door open for Sloan to get in.
Sloan tells the driver they are going to a bar called Francesca’s in Astoria.
Don frowns. “What if I already had a plan to go somewhere specific?”
“I wanted to spare you picking a place that you’ve gone to with Maggie.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Because if we went to a place of your choice, I know I would ask something awkward, like ‘Have you been here with Maggie?’, you would probably lie and say ‘No’ to protect my feelings – or whatever - and then, the bartender would say to you, ‘Hey Don, how’s Maggie?’ So, if I just pick the place, we can sidestep any impending bullshit.”
“Do you come up with these conclusions on the spot, or do you have all of this planned out in your head?”
“Let’s call it a combination of both. Plus, Francesca’s has fried pickles, and I want fried pickles.”
“I am starting rethink this whole thing.”
“Are you?”
“No. And by the way, shouldn’t I be more concerned that you’re taking me somewhere you’ve been to with one of your dates?”
“Did you just call me a floozy?”
“No, and you know that isn’t what I meant.”
Sloan gives a smug smile.
“Plus, I don’t think anyone born after 1958 says ‘floozy’.”
“Really? You should tell that to all of the gossip rags, because I’m pretty sure I’ve been called a floozy.”
“Which magazine? I’ll send them a better thesaurus.”
Sloan chuckles. “I don’t take anyone to Francesca’s. You’ll be the first.”
+
They sit at a small booth in Francesca’s at the very back. Sloan shrugs her coat off her shoulders, but she keeps her hat on, and Don smiles because the blood rushing in her cheeks and nose complements the raspberry hat. He doesn’t say that. He just smiles.
“Gin and tonic, two beers, and fried pickles,” she orders.
“You know my drink?”
She frowns. “That’s all for me.”
Don tells the waitress he wants a gin and tonic, one beer, and he’ll eat her fried pickles.
When they’re alone, Sloan turns her phone off.
“What if something happens?” Don asks.
“I’m with you, and I know you won’t turn your phone off.”
“You’re right about that.”
They don’t talk about anything other than what is playing on the television near them – CNN is being asinine and sensational about race politics again, and doing a horrible job – until their order comes, and after Sloan burns her tongue on a pickle, the conversation actually begins.
“When you said you wanted to go on working as if I didn’t exist – you know, way back when you thought you were taking another job but didn’t? I know that your plan didn’t last very long, but why did you want that anyway? I can’t help being curious, because something tells me you’re the one person in that newsroom who enjoys my existence despite knowing a lot of my bullshit and… I think I just got lost in my own question.”
“Are you asking why I decided to suck it up and face you after thoroughly embarrassing myself?”
“I’m not sure, but we can start there.”
“Well, I happen to be good at embarrassing myself, so-“
“Sloan.”
“You should know, I don’t like you ‘despite’ knowing your bullshit. I just happen to like your bullshit.”
“Why?”
“Because I can handle your bullshit.”
“You mean ‘unlike Maggie’?”
“No, not ‘unlike Maggie’. I mean I can handle your bullshit as in I’m not scared of your bullshit. Maggie didn’t deserve your bullshit.”
“So, you deserve my bullshit?”
“No. Your bullshit never should’ve been paddled against a girl like that.”
“A girl like that?”
“I love Maggie, but Maggie is better with Jim.”
“Which is why they are so happy being still not-together?”
“Yes, and why I don’t understand why you brought up Maggie in the first place.”
“I didn’t. You did.”
“No, I didn’t. You said –“
“Yes, I brought her up, but only as an example, not to actually talk about her.” He breathes. “You’re not scared of my bullshit.”
“No, because your bullshit isn’t as horrible as you either think it is or want it to be. All of the bad things you two went through together? A lot of it was stupid. Some people just aren’t meant to be. I’m not going to hold that against you. Hell, it doesn’t matter what I think about it anyway. It matters that you think that I give a shit about your relationship with Maggie. Do you think the pickles are cool now?”
Don eats one. “Yes. Go for it.”
There’s silence as she eats and Don drinks while watching her.
“I have a problem with you being okay with men paddling their bullshit against you,” Don tells her.
“I’ve picked up on that recently, thanks, but talking about my self-worth really isn’t-“
“I don’t want to talk about your self-worth either. I’m just saying.”
Sloan sighs. “I told you I wanted to stay away from you because I was embarrassed. Then, I reneged because I wanted it to seem like I didn’t care what happened between us either way.”
“But you did care.”
“I spent more time liking you when you were dating someone than I did when you were single. I was fine after I got over the embarrassment.”
“But you did care.”
“Yes, I cared.”
“Why?”
“Because when I told you that you were a good guy, you looked like you didn’t believe me. And when you got back with Maggie, I knew that something bad would happen, and you would be less and less convinced that you were a good guy, and you would think I said all of those things just to make you feel better.”
“Weren’t you trying to make me feel better?”
“Yes, but that didn’t mean I was lying.”
Don leans forward. “If I can be frank-”
“I thought you were Don.”
“Funny. I’m floored by the amount of time you have been single since I met you, but even more floored by how much time you’ve spent in relationships with assholes.”
“Funny. One of my students said that to me a few weeks ago and I had to tell him I wouldn’t go out with him.”
“Why not? Too good to sleep with your students like everyone else?”
“I have a rule about sleeping with men who don’t have hair on their chests.”
“Well, if that’s your only criteria…”
She laughs first. It comes out as a small burst of a giggle – a snort, really, somehow not expecting that comeback. Then, when she realizes how funny she actually finds it, she laughs harder, throwing her head back and covering her mouth, but making no sound.
Don laughs, too. This is how it has been lately. Not so much tiptoes around one another as they have been inching closer, sharing bad jokes and batting eyelashes, testing the water.
When they settle, Don drinks the rest of his gin in one go, and starts on his beer. “I don’t know if this matters, but when we first met-”
“Oh God, please don’t mention anything about my hair. It was a time when bobs were a ‘thing’, and I-”
“I don’t know if this matters,” Don says again, strong to shut her up. “… but when we first met, you were wearing a shirt that is the same color as that hat.”
“Are you asking me what my favorite color is?”
“No. I was saying that I remember what you were wearing when I first met you. Doesn’t that mean something?”
“Why should it mean something? Am I supposed to remember what you were wearing that day?”
“Don’t you?”
She thinks about it. “Well… no.”
“God, I must leave one hell of an impression.”
Again, she laughs, and he laughs, too.
“You like to come here alone, don’t you?” Don says.
She nods. “It’s one of the few places where guys don’t invite themselves to my table and say things like ‘a pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone’.” When she says it, she mocks a low-toned voice and tightens her brows, as if that is all it takes to be a convincing man. Don is amused by it, but says nothing. “Sometimes I want to drink and grade papers without the headache of people assuming that a woman can’t be alone without feeling lonely.”
“I think that’s because men can’t be alone without feeling lonely.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s just you generalizing to feel better about yourself.”
“And I thought you weren’t good at reading people.”
“There are exceptions to every rule.”
“Am I the exception or the rule?”
“I don’t know – wait. Isn’t that from a Drew Barrymore movie?”
“I watched it for Jennifer Aniston.”
“Wow, really? It wasn’t her best –“
“None of this is the point, Sloan.”
“Sorry, sorry. What was the point?”
“I… I don’t remember.”
They stare.
“Don, I-”
“You’re okay, right?” he says. “You rebounded fast, and I expected that, but I also don’t underestimate how humiliated you felt, and-”
“I’m okay.” She shrugs. “Turns out, my naked photos don’t rank high for very long compared to Tebow being signed by the Jets, Lindsay crashing again, and the Kardashians doing a multitude of bullshit. I just barely outranked the Clooney arrest and the Padalecki baby. Kind of disappointing, actually.”
“Padalecki baby?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”
Don nods. “I believe you.”
+
Don belongs with Sloan, and Sloan belongs with Don. Years ago, when they were first introduced in the halls of ACN, Don should’ve said, “I like your shirt.” Every time he’s seen her wear it since, he has thought about that day – sometimes for only a second, and sometimes for a lot longer, but never for too long.
Sloan should’ve told Don that he was smart and asked him out for a drink far before Maggie ever became an intern. She should’ve made more excuses to talk to him.
If one or all of those things had happened, they would’ve dated. The difference was, it wouldn’t have lasted as long as it could’ve, there would’ve never been a slow burn, and they would’ve never known just how good of friends they could be without it being muddied by romance.
And it is probably best that it happened this way. It’s a good thing that Sloan got the chance to date a lot of bad guys so she could know what a good one might look like, the kind of guy that would satisfy her.
Also, it’s a good thing that Don dated Maggie for so long, so he could know that being with someone he didn’t love just because he thought he was supposed to suffer didn’t make things easier – it made things fucking hard. It isn’t fun dating someone just to date someone. It isn’t fun to date someone for penance, or because you think you don’t deserve the full-fledged passion of true love. It’s just fucking cowardly.
True enough – all this being said – maybe Don shouldn’t have dated Maggie for as long as he did, and maybe Sloan could’ve been a little bit quicker about her revelation, but God bless the broken road, right?
The point is, Don belongs with Sloan, and Sloan belongs with Don, and they are getting there. They are learning what they deserve.
+
They stand arm to arm on the sidewalk, and Sloan is leaning against him because she is either cold or a little drunk – maybe both – and Don keeps waving for a cab; he puts an arm around her and rubs her shoulder to keep her warm. While they wait, a passerby gives Sloan a look, and this time, Don nods for the guy to fuck off. Maybe the liquor makes him feel more impatient in his dealings with people who still haven’t quite gotten over the photo scandal, or who have the misinformed view of Sloan as ACN’s sex kitten.
He doesn’t need to protect Sloan, but he doesn’t deny that he thinks about it from time to time, and he’s glad when she just smiles and rolls her eyes at him, but lets him do his bidding. He thinks that maybe the liquor makes her feel more relaxed, more willing to be open with him.
When a cab comes, he opens the door, then starts to wave for another, and Sloan is confused.
“We can take the same cab. We’re going in the same direction.”
Don drags his fingertip across the film of rain on the roof of the cab. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Sloan, if we take the same cab, the driver is going to ask us ‘one stop or two?’ because nobody who is married or not having an affair gets drinks at Francesca’s – except you, apparently. And then one of us is going to say ‘one stop’ and the other is going to say ‘two’, and it will be really weird because of presumption, you know? And I think you are very good looking and you charm the hell out of me, so, either way, I think I will be the one who admits that I don’t want the night to end just yet, and I’ll say ‘one stop’, but you’ll say ‘two’, and I’ll be the asshole.”
Sloan’s mouth hangs open.
“Either get in or get out!” the cabbie yells.
“Calm down,” Sloan snaps, bending down to glare at him. When she meets Don’s eyes again, he has to try very hard not to kiss her. She’s so close, rosy cheeked and dark-eyed. “Look, why don’t we take this cab together and let it just… be a cab ride. Two stops. No bullshit.”
Don swallows. “Okay.”
Sloan gets in, and then Don, shoulder to shoulder. The driver looks at them in the rear-view and asks, “One stop or two?”
“Two,” Don says.
“One,” Sloan says.
Don turns to her. “What? I thought we just said-”
“I thought you were going to be bold and say ‘one stop’, so I said ‘one stop’ because I didn’t want you to feel like you were being presumptuous, but then you said ‘two stops’, so now I’m really embarrassed and confused.”
“Yeah, me too!” the cabbie called over his shoulder.
“Calm down,” Don says.
Sloan takes in a deep breath and stares at Don as he goes through some mental checklist-a breakdown of what’s just happened. His mouth is red and wet, which seems to be a side effect of his drinking and talking too much. He looks relaxed and kissable, even with the dilemma.
Then, he looks at her and says, “So… one stop?”
Sloan takes another deep breath, looks at him in a way that says she isn’t sure of what he wants or expects, but she isn’t sure of what she wants or expects either, so it’s okay… It should be just fine.
Then, she looks at the driver and gives directions to her apartment.
+
Don didn’t know that Sloan lives in SoHo. He never asked and never looked into it, and he is quite sure he’s never heard her volunteer that information. He is glad he didn’t know, because if he had known, he may have made an excuse to show up at her apartment building a long time ago, saying things that he wasn’t sure he actually meant.
Her place is a lot bigger than his, with high ceilings and warm studio lights and full windows that show the New York skyline, and, “Okay, really. How much money do you make again?” She laughs at him and takes his jacket, hanging it in a closet behind the door.
Don looks around and notices that there are more pens and highlighters here than in the newsroom – or at least his own office, and probably Mac’s, too. There are also newspapers, finance journals, and manila folders that hold her students’ assignments. He wants to ask her if she has an office, but he figures that she either doesn’t, or she does, and doesn’t like using it, so it doesn’t matter.
He turns around to look at her, and she is standing there with her hands clasped in front of her like always.
“Did you want a beer? Or tea? I was gonna make some tea. Do you like tea?”
“I’ll have a beer, thanks.”
“Are you sure? You drank, like, four.”
“You had three. I had one. Tea is fine.”
“Cool. Tea.”
Don sits on the couch and takes off his boots because he is pretty sure that’s okay. From the couch, he can watch her move around her kitchen; she must be nervous or a little intoxicated (both) because she keeps scratching her head or going in the wrong direction as she moves from one side of the kitchen to the other to put the water in the kettle.
Before he can say, “Sloan, calm the fuck down,” he catches sight of her bedroom, which is up a set of trippy-looking stairs on an exposed loft. He can see her bed and a desk and clothes thrown around.
He decides he’s nervous, too.
He slips a half-graded term paper out of a folder on the coffee table, and sits back to distract himself with the inane opinions of some student at Columbia who is probably a prick, but he winds up more interested in Sloan’s purple-inked comments than the essay itself. She asks a lot of questions, agrees with as many points as she disagrees with, and puts smiley faces next to a multitude of nerd references that Don doesn’t understand (They aren’t Star Wars, so it’s beneath him).
She comes to the couch and side-saddles the seat, resting her head in her hand and pulling her feet up, heel to bum. She smiles, and Don smiles back.
“Whatcha reading?”
“Isaac Matthews’ analysis of why Gordon Gecko is better than that asshole Shia LaBeouf.” He hands her the paper. “You read these things in your spare time?”
“They’re cute,” she defends, brows indignant. She flips through the paper. “A little out there, but I like when my students turn in something interesting to read instead of regurgitating what they hear me say on News Night.”
“So, flattery isn’t your policy?”
“I don’t consider repeating things back to me like a parakeet as flattery.”
“You mean a parrot?”
“Either one.”
“Alright.”
“I spend three hours every Tuesday and Thursday morning talking about economics to a bunch of kids who’ve yet to live outside the wingspan of their parents. They are the first generation of intelligent minds – economists and scientists – that have done everything they’ve been told in life, and they will – by and large – see nothing for it. They’ll graduate with the ability to tell a stranger exactly what is wrong with the economy and job market, could rehabilitate a small country’s entire economic plan with just a pen and paper, and they’re more informed about this goddamn country than the people running it, but they won’t be able to get a job or a house or pay off a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of student loans. They’ll get a smack in the face. So, I have an appreciation for a kid like Isaac Matthews who can find the humor in this whole thing.”
Don breathes in deep, like he does every time Sloan goes off into a rant and he gets to see the blood rising in her skin.
He clears his throat. “You teach for three hours in the mornings?”
“Yes.”
“God, I would’ve never passed your class.”
“You suck at math.”
“I suck at flattery, too, so there’s your forewarning.”
She fights a smile, lowering her eyes.
“So, your favorite color’s purple?” he asks, taking the paper from her and gesturing to her pen markings before dropping it on the table.
“Why? Plan on buying me paint swatches?”
“Would that be something that flatters you? Would Isaac Matthews do that?”
“Isaac Matthews wouldn’t know where to buy a paint swatch. Yes. I like purple – shades of red and purple really. I like green, too. Blue is nice. I hate orange.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being your usually talkative and awkward self, or if you’re drunk.”
“I can’t either,” she admits, quiet, then laughs, covering her whole face. The laugh sounds embarrassed, and it fills up the whole apartment. “I’m sorry,” she pouts.
Don is grinning like he is the luckiest man in the world, and he isn’t drunk, but it sort of feels like it. It’s a good kind of drunk, where he feels open and warm and doesn’t have to be something other than himself. He’s always felt some wisp of that with Sloan, and now, it is full-fledged.
He’s in his own skin, and she’s in hers.
“I’m not drunk,” Sloan says, taking a deep breath and composing herself. “I could still recite the financial advisers of every presidency, ranked from the best to worst economy.”
Don smirks, only half-convinced. “You can?”
“Yes. I’ve been reciting them in my head since we got in the cab so I could know whether I was drunk or not.”
“Good strategy. Do you like teaching?”
“Yes.”
“Will you keep doing it?”
“If someone wants me to, sure. Couple of years until I’m tenured, and I like it.”
“I like you.”
Sloan says nothing, giving Don an opportunity to take back what he’s said, because she thinks he said it on accident, but he turns and rests his elbow on the back of the couch to match her, and he is smiling, his eyes bright and his cheeks full. He is enjoying watching her toil with a response.
Sloan licks her lips. “Were you happy with Maggie?” she asks, quiet.
He frowns at her, then stutters out, “That’s… not the response I was expecting. I have to say, you are always catching me off guard.”
“Were you happy with Maggie?”
Don stares, breathes. “Sloan, Maggie and I – it – it doesn’t matter anymore. We-”
She looks unnerved and small all of a sudden.
He’s honest with her, as he has always tried to be – in his way. “I’ll be honest: there are a lot of things I’ve thought about for months now, including and not limited to taking you out for a drink, finding out your favorite color, and being inside your apartment, and I’ve accomplished those things without making a mistake yet – which, I mean, I’m smooth, but luck is really on my side tonight-”
“Are you getting to your point or should I be patient?”
“My point…” Don wants to reach out and touch her cheek to see if it is as warm as it looks, but he doesn’t. “My point is that I don’t want to fuck this up by talking about my ex-girlfriend who is very happy pretending not being in a relationship with a guy who is a lot nicer than me. Sloan, I didn’t think about coming to your apartment just so I could talk about things I felt or didn’t feel with my ex.
“Also, I think you’re asking because you’re looking for a certain answer, and I’m afraid that if I answer the wrong way, you’ll make me leave and I’ll have to catch a cab in the rain with a heavy heart like I’m in a Woody Allen movie.”
Sloan wants to kiss him. “Don…”
He waits.
“Did you feel happy with Maggie?”
Don looks away from her, biting on the inside of his jaw. He expected her to ask the question again, and this time, he gives her the answer, hoping it is the right one.
“No. I wasn’t happy.”
She puts her head down. “See, I needed to know for sure because I think about-”
“You compare yourself to her.”
“I – yes – I used to, sometimes, in passing. In the beginning, anyway. Not because I was insecure, and not because I was jealous, but because…Because it felt like I was watching a relationship that was meant to happen to me happen to someone else.”
“Funny. I’ve felt that same way for the last six months. Except, you know, jealousy and insecurity included, because you didn’t just date an intern - you get asked out by investment bankers and professional athletes.”
“And yet, here I am with you.”
“And here you are with me. Finally.”
She grins and nods. “Yeah. Finally.”
+
December 2nd, 2011
It was the first of December and the weather was just wonky enough to solicit having seven minutes in everyone’s morning show B-block for some scientist to wax poetically about global warming. Don was standing outside of the Uris building at Columbia with a hot chocolate in one hand and a caramel espresso with as many shots as healthy in the other. He hummed to himself just to keep his lips warm, pacing when he needed to give his blood a rush.
The day before, it was sixty degrees and he wore a t-shirt to work. On this day, he woke up to sixteen-degree weather and sharp winds. He thought that it may as well have been snowing if he was going to suffer through the pain of air stabbing him in the goddamn eyeballs.
He was standing outside of Columbia because Sloan Sabbith was participating in a panel with other financial analysts from around the world.
To be clear, he happened to have a meeting in Harlem scheduled right before her panel was meant to start, and it was just convenience that the campus was nearby. (Also, he added the event to his phone’s calendar the moment he got the ‘upcoming events’ email that Neal sent out three weeks ago, and then pretended to do it again when Sloan brought it up in casual elevator conversation on Tuesday. He made a joke about being unsure whether or not he could commit, and she smiled.)
The point is: after Don’s meeting, he went to the auditorium where the panel was just starting, and stood in the back. He went in with plans to stay for only ten minutes, but of course, stayed the whole hour, because that was the actual plan – the one that didn’t include pretending that he didn’t care as much as he knew he did.
Honestly, he would’ve never stayed if it wasn’t for Sloan, but not because Sloan was Sloan. She was entertaining – intelligent above all else – but enter-fucking-taining. In a panel of all men, she was the quickest, funniest, and the better one to look at. She was also the most articulate, and Don wondered why she didn’t vamp more often in her segments – she was better unscripted. Her voice would fluctuate between emotions. She knew when to talk fast and when to slow down. She knew how to slip into sarcasm and accusations, and she knew when to shut the fuck up and nod. She was also gorgeous.
And so, even if this wasn’t Sloan Sabbith, the woman who he’d been doing the awkward dance around the office with for months now, he would’ve stayed. He would’ve stood in the back and watched her, and he would’ve promptly fallen in love.
Of course, if it wasn’t Sloan Sabbith, he would’ve never shown up at a goddamn panel on economics in the first place.
So, there’s that.
As the panel was giving their final remarks, Don slipped out, walked to get coffee and hot chocolate from Mansour’s, and took a cab back to the campus to make sure he didn’t miss her. Right on time, people were filing out, and he stood there, watching people come and go – either home or to their jobs or to classes – and he wished he could figure out which of the drinks Sloan was going to choose so that he could keep warm by drinking the other.
Finally, after waiting for her to come out to no avail, he gave up on his plan to be passive and walked inside.
She was standing with one of the younger men on the panel – older than she was by far, but still one of the youngest – and they were chatting it up.
Don stood quiet, wondering why the fuck he was doing this, and then, he happened to look up and find her smiling at him, and he remembered exactly why he was doing this.
He nodded hello, and she said goodbye to the guy who clearly was going to ask for her number (either Sloan didn’t realize because she’s Sloan, or she wasn’t interested because she’s Sloan – or she was sparing Don’s feelings, which – whatever, he didn’t care… not one bit) – and she walked up to Don, her pumps clicking against the hard floor.
“What are you doing here? – Ooh, is that coffee?” She took one of the cups from him – picking the coffee, somehow – and then sat down on one of the cushy blue benches the lobby was smattered with.
“Good afternoon to you, too,” he said, sitting next to her.
She drank while kicking her pumps off. “What are you doing here?” she asked, handing him the cup to hold while she dug up a pair of comfortable flats from her purse.
“Do you always carry a second pair of shoes, or-”
“Of course I do.”
“Of course you do – what am I saying? I’m an idiot not to carry a second pair of shoes with me at all times.”
“Yes, you are. What are you doing here? Did you come for the panel?”
“No, I was – I had a meeting and I stopped to get coffee and – well, I heard the tail end.”
She smirked. “That’s funny, because Neal was here and he said he thought he saw you standing in the back during-”
“I said I was here for the whole thing. I wouldn’t miss it. Good job.”
“Smooth, Keefer.” She slipped her shoes on and took the coffee. “What time do you have to go in?”
“Whenever. Was that guy hitting on you or were you hitting on him?”
“Pete? Of course not – wait, did it look like he was hitting on me?”
“Sort of. To the trained eye. Yeah.”
“Goddammit, Sabbith,” she muttered, standing up and smoothing out her pants – which were high-waisted and looked really goddamn good on her. “I’ve been trying to get his attention for years.”
Don started to follow her. “Oh, really?”
“No, not really. He’s been married twice and sweats a lot. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
Don shrugged and held the door open. “It was a spur of the moment decision. It’s cold and I needed a place to keep warm.”
She rolled her eyes. “Wanna split a cab?”
“Sure.”
He hailed down a car, and when they got in, the cabbie asked, “How many stops?”
They both replied, “One.”
+
The kettle starts to whistle, and Sloan hops up to get it, her thick socks sending her sliding across the floor, and she laughs at herself.
Don follows her with slower steps, taking his time to watch her pull the kettle off the burner and reach to pull down two mugs. She starts to mutter about how she only has artificial sweetener because she wants to lose five pounds for a wedding she has to go to in a few weeks. The comeback she set up for Don – “Alcohol and fried pickles will definitely help with that.” – is lost to him.
Instead, Don whispers her name, and she turns fast, surprised to find him so close to her.
He kisses her like he’s been wanting to, putting his hands on her sides and digging the pads of his fingertips into the fabric of her shirt – that big long-sleeved one with the name COLUMBIA emblazoned across the chest.
She is motionless under his hands – not kissing him back, and certainly not breathing.
He gives her three more seconds, and then she makes a contented sound and returns the kiss, slipping her hands up to his neck and encouraging him closer. He does just that, stepping against her until she is firm against the counter. She tastes like liquor and pickles – and the mint she must have snuck in without him noticing. He’ll remember this moment, and if he gets the chance to do so, he will tease her about how her breath tasted during their first kiss, and make her face fill with an embarrassed red.
When he thinks about a possible future where that could happen – where they tease one another about old memories – he pulls back from her mouth, still holding her, watching her eyes flutter open.
In a small voice, she asks, “Is my breath really bad?”
“Fuck, Sloan.”
He kisses her again, full on, and she pulls at him until he lifts her onto the counter. She holds his cheeks in her hands, and her fingers are so warm that he thinks about her putting them elsewhere. He wants her fingers threading through the hair on his chest, her palms pressed against his belly.
Her breathing is heavy and the heel of one of her feet is digging into the back of his thigh, and that encourages him to slide his hands down to her thighs and squeeze.
She moans, and they both stop.
“Tea?” she asks.
“Yes. Tea. Tea, I need tea.”
He walks out of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair, and he doesn’t stop walking until he is at her wall of windows. The rain is coming down with vigor now, slicking the streets and the rooftops, and the manholes are steaming. There aren’t many people walking around, but he imagines most of New York City is home or rushing there, to get away from the cold storm, to keep warm with someone they love, or a blanket.
It is warm here in Sloan’s apartment, but the cold is threatening on the other side.
“Don.”
He turns around and finds Sloan sitting on the couch again, holding a mug of tea close to her lips to keep her face warm. She’s sitting lotus style, and she had taken her hat off while he wasn’t looking – finally. Her dark hair is tossed around to look full, framing her face of doe eyes and light freckles and lovely mouth. He imagines that she’d done that thing that girls do, tossing her head around like a rock n’ roller to give herself volume.
Sloan is very cute, but he’d never call her that, even though he really wants to sometimes. In moments like these.
Don sits next to her on the very edge of the seat, looking at his mug on the table. “It is probably too hot to drink,” he says.
Sloan sits her mug down. “Yeah. Too hot. Probably. Sure, you’re probably right.”
Don kisses her again, and she unfolds her legs so he can fit between them. He lowers her against the couch, and she puts her arms under his, scratching at the back of his shirt as if she wants to open him up, as if he can possibly get any closer.
He gets a hand under her shirt, palms her navel, then slips around to the small of her back. He pulls her up tight until her spine is in a curve and she takes the hint to wrap her legs around him. Her skin is hot under his hand. He can’t get her close enough.
Keg in the Closet starts to ring out of her cell phone, and it vibrates across the table, startling them both.
“Kenny Chesney? Really?” he asks, pulling up to look her in the eyes.
She pushes him further back so that she can sit up and grab her phone. “It’s for work calls – for school – for – shut up.”
He stays sitting between her legs; she has one knee behind him and one in his lap, encasing him. He takes the knee in his lap and lifts it high enough that he can kiss it. She barrows her foot between his legs and under his thigh. He likes being tangled in her.
She answers the phone, resting her chin on his shoulder.
It’s only then that he realizes it is almost two in the morning. He wonders if she is sleeping with someone from work because she was too tired of waiting on him to make a move. Is that why she continued dating, even if she surely knew there was something between them? He is insecure, but that’s not her fault. She should never have to wait on anyone. He doesn’t blame her.
She speaks in the affirmative, smiling and nodding. She makes an awkward joke because she is Sloan, then hangs up.
“A friend wants me to cover her class at NYU tomorrow. She’s grounded in Chicago until morning.”
“You must be proud.”
“I’m not going to sleep with you.”
“Whoa. Is that the bedside manner of an economist, or-”
“Oh, shut up. You know I want to.”
“You want to?”
“Yes.”
“Flattery gets you everywhere, Miss Sabbith.”
She falls back with a sigh, and her shirt rides up enough to show her belly button, and she looks like a collegiate, Columbia pride spread across her chest (even though she sports more Berkley shirts than anything). Don wonders what it might have been like if she’d gone to Columbia for her undergrad at the same time he did, or if he’d gone to UCLA. He wonders what it might have been like to be her college sweetheart – the one she loved and may have married, but probably didn’t marry because she would’ve wanted to get her PhD., and he would’ve wanted to start working in someone’s control room immediately, and they would’ve ended up on opposite sides of the world, unmarried and screening one another’s calls because they didn’t know how to be mature about breaking up.
Or, it could’ve been fine. They could’ve fallen in love and stayed in love. It could’ve been nice.
It’s nice now, either way.
“I want to sleep with you,” she says as he takes her foot in his hand. She scratches at her hair and tosses it again. “Not tonight.”
“Not tonight. Okay. Is tomorrow good? I can swing back around.”
“Don.”
“I’m joking – why do you feel the need to say all this?”
She frowns. “Shouldn’t I?”
“I didn’t think so until you started speaking. Now I don’t know.”
“I brought you home with me in the middle of the night and we had a lot to drink!”
“You had a lot to drink. I was nowhere near my limit.”
“I only had three – wait, what do you think my limit is?”
“Whatever it is, I now know that I underestimated.”
“Don.”
“Talk to me.”
“I wanna sleep with you when I’m sure that it’s going to be more than just that, because I would like more, even though wanting more has never bid well with me…” She frowns, the history of her relationships flashing before her eyes, one by one. Then, she looks at him again, warm and vulnerable as if she'd never been distracted. “Also, I don’t want to sleep with you after I’ve had three beers and my breath tastes like pickles, and I haven’t shaved my legs in, like, two weeks.”
“Is that normal?”
“Which part?”
“I was joking – it doesn’t matter. Sloan.” He looks at her with all seriousness, holding her foot tight. “I agree with you on your first point and second point, and I don’t care about the third point very much at all – I’m a grown man and hair on your legs doesn’t scare me. I’m wondering if you thought I was going to try to sleep with you.”
“Weren’t you?”
“If I thought that sex was what this whole thing is about, I – first – would’ve gotten sex from whoever-the-fuck else because I like having you in a normally awkward friendship, as opposed to a severely awkward friends-who-slept-together relationship. Second, if I decided none of that mattered to me, I would’ve tried to sleep with you a long time ago. And third… Sloan, I care about you and I like the idea of you caring about me – even if that is terrible judgment on your part, Professor – and I wouldn’t think of sleeping with you when there’s even an ounce of beer in you, let alone three beers and a whiskey. At least, not the first time.”
She looks as floored as he expects her to be, then says, “So, the pickles are okay?”
He laughs, leans over, and she meets him halfway in a kiss. He lays into her, and smiles against her lips. She isn’t holding him as tight as she was before, and he keeps his hands on the outside of her shirt, and it doesn’t feel as hot between them anymore. They aren’t needy or overwhelmed or horny. They are kissing one another, and that’s nice.
“Do you want to stay the night?” she asks against his mouth.
“Are you going to try to get fresh with me?”
“Probably.”
“Okay.”
She laughs and pushes him away. “Come on.”
“What about the tea?”
“Damn the tea.”
“Alright then.”
She turns out the lights on the first level, leaving the moon and city to shine in. In just that light, Don realizes he really is in her space, on top of the world. Or, on top of SoHo, at least – which, it makes total sense for Sloan to live in SoHo, away from the hustle of Midtown and the reminder of work near Columbia, but still just a walk away from the Financial District in case she needs to put her foot up someone’s ass – or, you know, get a quote.
“But seriously: how much are you getting paid? This place-”
“I would suggest you shut your mouth before I start thinking you’re a gold digger.”
“But I am a gold digger. I thought you knew.”
Sloan’s bedroom is spacious and warm with clothes and shoes tossed around. Don imagines that she spent twenty minutes this morning trying to find something to wear, but he knows that isn’t true. Most of the clothes and shoes lying around are outfits she’s worn this week, and so, he knows she is the type of woman to go home, pull off her clothes, and collapse across her bed, muttering empty promises to herself about doing laundry tomorrow.
He smiles because she doesn’t try to apologize for the mess.
“There’s mouthwash in the medicine cabinet,” she says, pointing to her bathroom door.
He frowns. “Are you insulting me?”
“I’m saying that I want to kiss you without feeling like we’re in a pickle.”
“Was that meant to be a double entendre, or-?”
“I’m too sleepy to remember what a double entendre is.”
“It’s when-”
“I know what a double entendre is, Keefer.”
He laughs and goes into the bathroom. “Just be glad we didn’t go to Hang Chew’s and eat those tuna abominations you all like.”
“They seem like a good idea until you eat them.”
“They never sound like a good idea, Sloan.”
He finds the mouthwash and watches his reflection while he rinses away all the odd tastes in his mouth. His hair is fluffed from Sloan’s hands running through it, and his shirt is wrinkled from Sloan pulling at it, and his lips are swollen red from Sloan biting and suckling at them.
He almost swallows the mouthwash, because he’s an idiot.
Sloan comes in as he spits. She’s holding a bundle of clothes against her chest.
Don leans against the sink, arms across his chest. “I take it you don’t have anything that will fit me.”
“It depends. How do you feel about lace?”
“It makes me itch.”
“Then, no. I don’t think so.”
Don leaves.
+
December 2nd, 2011
There are things that Sloan has chosen to ignore, or at least, not make a big deal out of. Like the post-script of ‘How’s Don?’ from Jim’s last email, or Will’s unimpressed but all-knowing look whenever he sees Don and Sloan in company, conspiring as they always seem to do.
Then, there are things she doesn’t ignore, because she can’t, and that is mostly MacKenzie, who is sort of her only lady friend – since Maggie had always been more of an accomplice, not a friend, even though Sloan might have been interested in something more, but alas, Maggie has her own shit to deal with, including but not limited to a halfway relationship with Jim and survivor’s guilt.
MacKenzie, however, makes it her duty to make other people’s business her business, and she is insistent on getting Don and Sloan together, and has been for a while, apparently.
“You’ll have to own up to it at some point or another, you know,” she said over drinks at Hang Chew’s. It was the night of Sloan’s panel at Columbia, and Sloan had just told her that Don went to see her, and brought her coffee, and split a cab with her, and sat in the corner of her office for an hour as they talked about nothing, waiting for the day to start.
“Excuse me, but I’ll leave the unrequited love business up to the rest of the people in that office.”
Mac shrugged. “You’re probably right about that. Maggie and Jim just can’t seem to – wait, you’re talking about me and Will, aren’t you?”
“Oh, of course not.”
“I’ll have you know that our love is requited, thank you very much. We’re just… our requitedness is momentarily unrequited.”
“I’m sorry, but I thought we were talking about me tonight.”
“Well, usually if I talk about you, you deny deny deny until I have to talk about myself. Make up your mind, lady.”
Sloan picked up her whiskey and swallowed it in one go. After snarling at the burn in her chest, she sighed, making an awful noise that MacKenzie laughed at. “Don’s a good guy.”
“Don’s a great guy, actually. I can’t believe I never tried to get you two-”
“Yes. Don’s a great guy. But he also thinks he’s a bad guy, so that sometimes poisons the good part.”
“And you think –“
“I think we’ll sabotage the whole thing if we ever, you know-“
“Do it?”
Sloan covered her face with her hands. “God, Mac.”
“Has he hinted that he might want to sleep with you?”
“I don’t know if Don has ever ‘hinted’ at anything in his life. He’s usually more…” She punched at the air to animate Don’s Donness.
MacKenzie stared. “I’m not sure I know what that means. Is that a Hulk thing, or-”
“Assertive, Mac!”
“Well, thank God – thought it meant he went around punching people.”
“He’s run into a few doors once, and I think he might’ve wanted to bitch slap –“
“Enough, enough. Move on.”
“Right.” Sloan sighed. “When I saw him this morning – after the panel – he seemed like he didn’t want to admit that he went out of his way to see me. He does that, you know, playing it smooth, like he doesn’t want to be the good guy and… Oh, I don’t know, maybe he wants to be, but feels like he is being a poser, or that he’ll become Mr. Nice Guy.”
“Like Jim.”
“Exactly – wait. You think Jim is Mr. Nice Guy.”
“Sometimes he can be entitled and smug.”
“Don can be smug.”
“We’re all smug – it’s in the job requirement – but I don’t think Don feels entitled to anything, and especially not you. You know, should lock him in a broom cupboard.”
“Excuse me?”
“I mean, not alone. You should lock yourself in there with him.”
“We’d run out of air pretty fast. The closets at ACN aren’t very big.”
“At least you’d die trying.”
Sloan grinned, because even when MacKenzie was failing at her own non-relationship and being a bit of lightweight drunk, she could give the best wisdom… somehow… after a bit of deciphering.
“I’m seeing someone, Mac.” She says it with a heavy sigh.
Mac goes bug-eyed, but says nothing.
“And I like him,” Sloan continues. “And… I don’t think Don… I don’t think…”
Mac puts up a hand to stop her. “I understand.”
“Do you?”
Mac says nothing for a long time, drinking and staring off. She is thinking about Will, and Sloan doesn’t blame her.
Finally, Mac clears her throat and looks at Sloan with sincere eyes. “I understand what it is like to feel impatient. I understand what it’s like to not know if you’re meant to wait or move on.”
Sloan nods. “Yeah.”
+
Sloan rushes through brushing her teeth and taking her contacts out, then puts on her Eli Manning jersey and sweatpants, and a second pair of wool socks because her feet get cold at night. She is without makeup, wearing her big glasses and her hair is tied on top of her head and – Don is really going to see her like this, and that is intimate enough to make her almost reconsider just having sex with him. That might be less invasive.
She wants him to see her like this, though. Underneath the fear and second-guessing.
She leaves the bathroom and finds him sitting on the side of her bed, waiting.
He stands with a start. “I was thinking that I should –“ He stops, taking in the sight of her, and he grins.
Sloan crosses her arms over her chest. “You were thinking you should what?”
“I…” He trails off, and he chuckles. The smile fills his face. He is so unabashedly smitten with her that it infects Sloan with a satisfaction she’s criminally unfamiliar with. “I was thinking I should sleep on the couch, but I changed my mind.”
“Just now?”
“Yes, just now.”
“Good to hear.”
She gets into bed as he strips down to his boxers and t-shirt.
“I like to sleep on the right side,” he says. “It’s near the door, you know.”
“Tough. I don’t need your macho bullshit in my bed.”
He puts his hands up. “Hey. I like the right side because in my apartment, the left side is near the fire escape, and if someone breaks in that way – which is far more likely, mind you – then I won’t be the one to be attacked first.”
“Wow. Maggie was a lucky woman.”
“Shut up, Sabbith.” He gets in on the left side, then scoots over so close to her that it doesn’t matter – they are both tangled together on the right side. “I should tell you that I’m a Falcons fan,” he whispers against her chin. He slips a leg between hers and she locks her ankles around his, sliding a hand around his middle, too.
“That’s unfortunate. I might have to put you outside to keep the smell away.”
“Smells a bit better than you. You guys beating the Pats was a fluke.”
“Is trash talking my team a part of your plan to get with me? Because I’m not sure it is gonna work.”
“Oh, it’ll work,” he says, finally kissing her mouth, although quick and subtle. “All a part of the Keefer master plan.”
Sloan laughs as his hands slip under her shirt and around her middle. She sighs, satisfied with how warm his hands are. “Master plan, huh?”
“Mhmm. Starts with pickles and ends with me burning all of your Giants gear.”
“I’m sure I’ll swoon.”
“Oh, I can guarantee it.”
He kisses her, slow, and she opens her mouth to the taste of him, and it isn’t long before she rolls on top of him and lets him take her glasses off. His kisses are sweet, hot underneath, full of breath and small sounds that he doesn’t try to hold back – which is a turn on more than anything, because guys that keep quiet never seem to last long with her in any regard.
They kiss and touch until they are drowsy from the warmth and the liquor and the late hour. She starts to slips away him, but he keeps her close, encouraging her to stay hooked around him as much as she wants. She does, wrapping an arm around his stomach and laying her head on his shoulder; she kisses his ear and he hums. Their legs tangle, toes fighting. His body is warm and soft all over, and his hands are smooth and heavy where they rest on her back.
Minutes pass, the sound of the city and wind and rain and the heater lulling them closer to sleep.
With a tired purr, Sloan curls tighter into Don, and he sees the possibility of her. He feels the slow burning of the last months come down into a perfect simmer. He wonders how he never noticed, how he’d never been intrigued by her, and how he never wanted her. All along, the empty space in his chest had been just her size, waiting to be filled.
“Sloan,” he whispers.
She moans, rubbing her foot against his. “Mhm?”
“I like you a lot.”
She says nothing for a moment, looking down into his eyes. No matter what’s happened and what’s been proven, she still looks so humbled by the prospect of having him, and of him having her.
Then, with kind eyes and a small grin, presses her lips against his cheek, and then his jaw, and then his lips. “I like you a lot, too,” she says against his mouth. “Now, let me sleep.”
She holds him, and he holds her, fit together - just as they should be.