Only that's stretching some line of tension thin too: her sliding down between his knees, the line of her bare shoulders there and her hands moving at the inside of his thighs - it narrows something in him, flat and still and just as dangerous as it had been with that needle at his neck and his hand around hers. Because this isn't better but it isn't worse, the skim of her nose across the fabric of his slacks and the heat of her mouth-- he starts at the feel of it, not sure if he's pulling away or pressing into it as his fingers find the arm of the chair and dig in sharp.

This isn't what he's here to do, and yet here they are. Something low digs at him, some urge to push her out from between his knees and step over her, make for the door or-- or he doesn't know what. Instead he breathes in, sharp and pitched, some wire hot heat rising in him. There's no give there, no encouragement, but he's not pulling free and that should worry him.