It isn't surprising — if anything, it seems almost inevitable — but it is very, very welcome. Eames smiles against her mouth, slow and self-assured and pleased. There's something about the rhythm to things like this, when it all falls into place on its own, like something choreographed and improvised at once, that he can't help (likewise unexpectedly, if he were to stop to think about it) but find appealing. Simple though it might be, in a place like this, there are few things better. "Mm, can you?" he asks, leaning in in turn, catching her lower lip between his own, fingers threading fully into her hair. "I was just thinking that I could, too."