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and this too shall remain unnamed

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"I think I'm done, partying, but… if you need anything you know where to find me."

This is ridiculous.

She's being ridiculous, letting herself get caught up in this game.

"Sol--" she starts, then immediately cuts herself off.


Kerri closes her eyes, counts to three, and when that doesn't really help, pushes on anyway. "I don't know any more. Yeah, party's over now, huh?" She reaches to collect the glasses, needing to busy herself, to distract herself--

Sol grabs her wrist, and Kerri goes still.

She could break the hold, if she wanted to. Sol would release her, if she asked.

But she doesn't. She doesn't. She stands there, caught, uncertain.

"Kerri," Sol says, her voice rough -- with whiskey, with something sharper that Kerri doesn't want to put a name to. "Not yet."

She can't look away, aware (oh so aware) of the warmth of Sol's touch on her wrist, then against her hip, as Sol lets her other hand settle there.

The tug is gentle, barely there. A question, a request, a need. A quiet fear.

Kerri allows herself to be pulled, allows Sol to reel her in with a grip growing more confident. She bends beneath the touch, sliding her knees onto the couch, shivering as Sol's arm curls around her back.

Sol arches off the cushion to meet her half way, lips and tongue coated with liquor, and Kerri drinks it in. Her fingers slip up Kerri's wrist, pulling her down, closer -- her hand curling around the base of Kerri's head, guiding her in, keeping her there.

A small sound escapes Kerri, and Sol drags it out, tugging gently at the tie holding up Kerri's hair. She works it free, and Kerri pulls from the kiss long enough to gasp, eyes fluttering shut as Sol's fingers tangle in the strands, creating spools of pale gold by the fistful.

Sol's lips press against her jaw, tracing it down to the slope of Kerri's throat. In the silence of the room, Kerri's breathy gasps are barely audible over the ambient hum of the engine.

The hand on her wrist lets go, and Kerri catches herself on the back of the couch. Sol's touch lands on her waist, allowing a beat of hesitation before the tips of her fingers slip beneath the hem of Kerri's sweater. Her kisses along the lines of Kerri's throat slow, softly lingering. Her palm is flush against Kerri's skin, light enough to not irritate the wound, but enough of a presence that Sol's words rattle in the space between them.

I didn't like seeing you get hurt.

Kerri tilts her head, letting her cheek rest against Sol's temple. Sol's breath warms her shoulder and collarbone, and Kerri steadies herself to breathe in time. Her hand follows the line of Sol's jaw, the tips of her fingers ghosting over the shape of it, around the shell of her ear, raking back through her short hair.

She cradles the base of Sol's head for a moment before pulling her back. "I'm alright," she whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to Sol's lips. "I'm alright," she repeats, the second kiss drawn out, lingering.

Kerri doesn't say it a third time, as she cups Sol's face in her hands, tilting her head back. She lets it out on the exhale, the kiss deeper, sharper -- something Kerri doesn't want to put a name to.