Roan listened to her move about for as long as he could. Eventually he heard the tell-tale sounds of her disappearing into her room. He'd been in there many times - innocent, leading, unbearably suggestive. There hadn't been this kind of divide between himself and other women. He hadn't really cared about what they thought. There had only been an exchange of whatever comfort either body held. And equal abandon, and a tandem disinterest.<br/><br/>Here, it was different. He went away to try and find those flighty nights again. Iris had never been a stickler about curfews. Artists must have roam. And though he put money in her hand as often as a pieces of his were bought, it felt as though he was paying rent with his continued submersion in whoever he was when he produced things. He licked a finger and pushed his palm into his forehead, endeavoring to break his neck by bending his head into the bedding. It was childish, but the pain from the strain was enough to make him shake until he stopped. He did so with a sigh.<br/><br/>He didn't know how much time had passed putting his stray wondering onto the ceiling when she started gliding through the house again. His head rolled to the side. It was good company, her footfalls and the kitchen alarms. He suppose he'd learned to love and hate the small things about another person from exposure. It made him miss drug-addled outings with nothing to catch you but your next chemical filter. He was still looking at the spring of the door when she placed herself there.<br/><br/>The room that opened to her was spacious. She'd insisted he have a good studio to work in, and he'd tried to make the excess of surfaces more intimate. He didn't need light, he didn't want echoes. He didn't paint or sing. He needed his thoughts and they escaped him if he let them space to roam. He'd told her after taking the room. It was something they laughed about on occasion. Roan sat up on the floor when he saw her. He'd counted the steps of her coming.<br/><br/>"You read my mind." but she couldn't. It was their foremost problem. He didn't dwell on it. Roan stood up, hair still a cloud to one side, that wind-touched careless around his handsome, and walked over to her. It was a fucking trap, that outfit with just enough homely pull and more than his recommended amount of next-door allure. He took the glass and had a mouthful. He appreciated the flimsy excuse to see him. His shoulder rested against the wall close to the door when his hand held the glass to her cheek.<br/><br/>"Are we having a sleepover in my room?" he asked, meaning her clothes, as though she wasn't always dressed like this at this time. He took the glass back and held the same place to his own cheekbone. Instead his other hand came out to touch the low of her chin. He supposed he pulled a little at her, to get her inside the threshold, even though he didn't really know what to do with her if she came along. He went deeper inside, anyway.<br/><br/>"You can look at me the wrong way and I can blow it out of proportion." he said with a grin as he took steps backward. It was good therapy to make fun.