( it's odd, this. he's staring, but he's not staring. not ogling at her the way she's used to, the way most men (even the good ones) would be tempted to do in this situation and this proximity. not staring in any way that prickles under her skin or makes her want to shrink. just .. observing. watching. relaxing into pulling at his tie, a shrug that she's nearly certain she's mis-seen through the fog on the glass between them.

soapy water runs a rivulet through a shallow gash on her arm, breaking the moment as she sucks in a quick hiss, clasping a hand to it. so, she'd lied. some of the blood had been hers. but comparatively? not anything to worry about. she's always bounced back faster than most. )

Let me guess — ( she covers smoothly, as though she hadn't just bent in pain; there's a tightness to the edge of her voice. ) Fashion is suffering. It wouldn't be as impressive if you were just wearing normal clothes.

( setting the loofah aside, she turns to focus on washing off her back, her hand still covering the wound. a little soap wouldn't kill her, and she'd bandage it after she was out. )

If you play your cards right, I'll wash your hair for you.