( oh. she--might actually stay. it's not like he thought she would refuse; if anything, he figured she might just gently skate around the edges of reasons why it would be better if she didn't. for one, no matter what they may now know about each other, a few things that feel distinctly personal he thinks maybe, they might have traded some coveted secrets, he still might not be sure enough for her to trust him; for another, the apartment only has one bed, not that he won't offer to sleep on the sofa if necessary. hell, he'd sleep on the balcony if he had to, just to make her comfortable, but--that's a hurdle he'll jump, or fall over, once they get to it.

she takes a seat on the sofa and he kneels, instead, by the coffee table, careful so that he can work the bakery bag open and then, with both hands, lift the lid on the plastic box inside. the pastries look incredible, drizzled with chocolate and puffed up with cream, and he knows he's definitely going to have to resist eating too many. either that or he's really going to have to take gladiolus up on his offer for sunrise runs... ugh. )

So you'll stay, and eat dessert, and go into a sugar coma with me in bed, gotcha. ( he's smiling, though, easy as it is, and rather than dive into the dessert himself, he--well, he thinks that maybe she would be more comfortable eating properly, so he gets up, pads to the kitchen, stretches for a small white plate and then returns back only so that he can pick up, with his fingers, one of the cream puffs and set it neatly down for her before he passes the plate over.

he's a heathen, and so he'll eat out of the box, himself. )

Anyway, super detective, how'd you find me? ( he sits cross-legged on the floor so as to be closer to the table--but he's licking his fingers free of the chocolate as he watches her, like she steals his attention more than the promise of the sweet and delicious things inches away. )