[ She was going to be waiting in the bedroom but boy can he snipe the mood. Instead she's hunkered into her couch with an open bottle of Jack between her legs, the neck held in both hands. Maybe the "something else" they should talk about is nothing. She's willing to leave the ball in his court, her head falling back against the seat as he settles into her side. Internally, she debates over offering him some of her liquor, then decides against it, though she won't refuse him a couple sips if he asks. Too much could make him weepy, or chatty, or both, or something worse that she can't fathom beyond the previous combination. ]
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