"And this place in particular is definitely a class apart from some of the other huts," Ellen tells him, looking up just in time to catch his hand hovering in her vision as it moves toward her face, pushes past, nudging hair away from her face. It's a miracle she doesn't flinch; the unexpected touches are what she sometimes shies away from, the ones she has no control over. It's easier when she feels like she's the one initiating, and it doesn't leave her with that sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Interestingly, there's nothing like that here, now, and she tips her head slightly into the brush of fingertips, smiling slowly. She takes it a step further though, first by stepping forward and then by smoothing her palms over the lapels of his jacket, fingers curling around the edges until they rise up closer to the collar, before she tilts her face up to his.

"I can think of at least one right now," she admits, leaning in close, a light brush of lips on every single syllable, the heat of her mouth, the barely-there flick of her tongue when she parts her mouth against his, just enough to tease.