She goes with his pull, her hand bracing on the floor as she slid forward, down - into him. He had such very lovely eyes. A sky of clouds, all promising rain. Which is a perfectly ridiculous thought. But it is the one she has, so close to him. Her eyes flicking between his.

Her tongue wets her lips. She must be sensible. She must be kind. To him, to herself. "I am glad you like it." She must be selfish, greedy, snatching for balms to her own loneliness, the aches she had never tended simply because he is kind enough to indulge her own silliness. "You will have much of it, I am quite sure. Many men and women would - far better than a lonely widow who is quite drunk."

A forgivable offence, she hopes. He has indulged her so kindly, so far, because she is yet to pull away. A little further and she would be laying across him. Nothing about this is seemly, decent outside of this room. "I fear I make a fool out of myself." Her wrist is still in his hand.