When she turns with the black box in hand, her attention lowers to the bottom hem of my T-shirt. I get another flash of the discomfort she showed earlier, only this time I want more of it. I lazily lift my shirt, and a blush rises in her cheeks while her eyes skate over the ridges of my abs. They settle on the tattoo slightly dipping below the top of my jeans.

Restless.

“We don’t have all day, sweetheart,” I tell her in a bored tone.

Remi’s gaze jerks to mine, and I point my chin to the mic pack still tightly clutched in her hand.

She releases an annoyed huff of air and starts hooking me up without another word. I watch her fingers brush my bare skin, my teeth clenching together with every second of contact. With her so close again, the same hint of jasmine from Prague floats through the air, something darker underneath.

I’d never admit it to a living soul, but I once sniffed my way through a perfume aisle, wondering which she’d use. A fragrance with flowers was my pick, but not dark. The memory of standing in the store like a creep surprises me. Especially when one side of my mouth turns up the slightest bit, remembering how much I didn’t fucking care because it made me feel closer to her somehow.

The redness from her cheeks dips down her neck when she has to slip her hand farther up my shirt to attach the mic. “Lee said to keep the mics hidden as much as possible when filming,” she says in a quiet rush. “God forbid we ruin the aesthetics with too much honesty.”

I lean forward to give her less of a reach while she clips it on. “No one behind this wants honesty,” I tell her. “They only want the profitable illusion of it.”

“I want it.” Green orbs flash to mine, then she’s back to fucking with the battery pack on my waistband.

We’ve both kept our voices low, despite the room being empty. Maybe a shared habit of being around recording equipment. Yet some part of me says it has more to do with something more specific to us. A history of not wanting to be overheard by parents or roommates and to avoid aggravated stares from tourists in galleries and museums.

A section of her hair falls forward. She gives a slight shake of her head to move it, but it tumbles over her eye again. It’s not until my fingers are brushing the strands away that I realize I’ve moved. The backs of my knuckles brush her forehead as I tuck the lock of hair behind her ear with the rest. The gesture stills her hands. Her lashes flutter along with her breath.