[He pulls the few strands of hair fallen loose from her pins up off the back of her neck and traces his fingers over the damage. There are marks here that will never go. He's heard her use the word perfect before with the kind of tone that makes it less and less surprising to see how she ensures she's not.

But it is healed enough. She's looked after herself, at least a little.]

You hate what your mind does to you when you're left alone with it, but you can't stand to make it any less sharp. You can see the paradox inherent in that.

[And of course it's the answer he'd expected. Worrying his lower lip between his teeth, he walks back around the chair, a hand on the back of it and leaning just enough to meet her eyeline evenly.]

Guess we'll just have to see about giving it a new distraction.