but they won’t let it go-- they tease her. they flirt-- they make it impossible to ignore that she wants them. make it impossible for this--energy to be temporary. “i can’t do it-- i won’t--” and it’s a familiar fight, but this time the fire between them seems like it’s sparking out of control. she looks up at them, a stubborn curve to her lips. “i’m not going to risk our friendship for hormones-- it’s temporary-- you’ll find someone new to fuck next week-- what-- is the point in ruining the friendship just so you can get off-- huh?” she doesn’t tell them-- that she doesn’t want them just as badly, because it’d be a lie.

she’d come to the notorious speakeasy with every intention of spying on the gun runner her client was interested in getting dirt on, and  ended up in the middle of a gun fight. it was raining bullets-- and all she could hear was the unmistakable sound of gunfire and screams from the unknowing and unwilling caught in the middle. she stays low on the floor, crawls  slowly--and follows a man who seems to know where he’s going. it isn’t until the door to safe room shuts with a soft click that she realises that this might not have been a brilliant idea either. she stuck out a little in the midst of the crowd outside, but under harsh flourescent light it’s clear that she doesn’t belong. wide blue eyes meet an intimidating gaze-- “i’d really prefer if you don’t kill me. i’m just saying-- i followed you because i didn’t want to get shot and it’d be a bit of a waste to just murder me now. i mean-- if i wanted to get turned into swiss cheese i’d have just stayed out there--” she’s a nervous rambler-- she can’t help it, and it seemed pointless to reel it in. her knees are bleeding, but for the most part she’s un harmed. she spots blood on their palms, and frowns slightly. “oh-- uh you look like you’ve got some blood-- i have a first aid kit--” she supposes it’s a bit strange to offer   help to a man who seemed disinterested at best and a little bit murderous at worst but she can’t help the genuine concern in the voice. she pulls out a small case from her bag, and scans him for obvious injury  “are you hurt?” 

she leads him up into her flat-- and then into the bathroom where she proceeds to wash her knife, whilst sneaking glances at him. “so. are you going to explain why there’s a man following me? or well-- why there’s a man currently bleeding out in the back of the murder van that’s been following me for three days?” she’s full of questions--and whilst she usually tries to temper that impulse around seb, she can’t help it this time.  “or why you’re here...? you--  i thought you said you got in, in a couple of hours?” her expression softens-- because she’s happy to see him in a way that makes so sense-- given the actual amount of time they’d spent together. but she’d missed him enough to make her stomach hurts. “start speaking, grim. i don’t like having to contemplate my jail time so early in the goddamn morning.”

Lately the baby was restless at all hours-- more so, since Dorian left. It’s almost as if the child noticed the lack of his steady, grounding energy, as if the small..growing thing missed him and needs their mother to know it--and now wants to celebrate his return.  As if Arabella hadn’t been extremely aware of his absence and desperately attempted to fill it, and failied horribly.  In her unorthodox sleepwear, the bump is more notable, round- and present. She slips out of the bed. Her belly stretches out the front of the garment, the neckline scoops low, revealing her ample bosom, the hem reaches the tops of her thighs. it’s oddly-- the most bare she’s been around him and she is suddenly aware of the fact.  “i... confess. i have no reason for wearing your clothes only-- that it soothed the little one some. and well--they’re comfortable. and....” and they smell like you. but those words die on her tongue. “...i may have overstepped. if i have, i am sorry--” 

“okay but does this look...good?” she’s never been one to dress up for anyone-- but she wants to make an effort-- after all it’s valentines day. she steps out of the closet, in red lacy lingerie, that cups and hugs her every curve and she feels-- exposed. she feels-- powerful too, oddly enough. her breasts jiggle with every calculated step (because heels were high and she was out of practice).  “um so what do you think? do you think he’ll like it? am i over thinking this-- i-- i look ridiculous right? i mean really what am i  a strawberry? what is this shite?” she tugs at the garter. “i’ll just try something else maybe?” 

she’s never been good at talking about her feelings-- she prefers adrenaline. prefers jumping out of moving vehicles-- or a brief fist fight to having to put her feelings into words. but lately, ignoring her feelings was proving impossible. she wasn’t sure when it had started-- the strange inability of her heart to slow down in their company, the quiet way she snuck looks at them when they weren’t paying attention--- and now-- the way she pouted into her cup, watching another girl drape themselves all over them. “mm-- i need air. you good?” her tone is perfunctory-- doesn’t even really wait for an answer before she’s stepping out of the party into the cool night air, desperate for oxygen. she hears the door close and groans silently-- “ah-- wasn’t really in the mood for company--”

“can you stop staring--” she bites her bottom lip. “i can feel it!” she’s blushing-- furious and pink but they’re eyes on her as she bakes is disconcerting--everything about their presence is disconcerting. no matter how many times she told herself that she was imagining the way their eyes lingered on her-- her stomach wouldn’t stop flipping at the sight of them. “i’m trying to finish this cake and you’re making it impossible. go sit over there and distract passers by-- you’re so pretty maybe they’ll come in and buy something--” the comment slips out--and it makes her blush deepen. she covers her embarrassment with a cough. “shoo!”