He touches a hand to the edge of the bar—there's a sense of the temporary to the gesture, as though he's tapping someone on the shoulder. His fingernails are trimmed and whole, the sight incongruous still; his gaze brushes over them.

“You were.” He doesn't sit, doesn't reach for the shot—the liquid milky as a blind eye. The thought of drinking it turns his stomach, the thought of telling her—it's just a preference, too warm and too cloying—feels impossibly personal.

His hand drops and he looks at her long and hard. “You were real fucking pleased with yourself.”