This continues from The Unmistakeable Mark of Tension.
The slip of the shrug to the seat of the sofa forces a sigh from his lips; his arms sharply lifting the paper a little higher. She murmurs beneath her breath, but he knows what she spoke of. He knows that she recognises his impatience with her sensitivity to temperature, and yet it seems to be her full time occupation today to constantly pester him with her covering and uncovering of her shoulders. Not such for the irritating repetition of the habit, but for the revealing of her sleeveless and low necked top that leaves a little too much to the imagination for his liking. He knows she is attempting to engage him in conversation, especially since they haven't exchanged a civil word for three days now. The truth is, he is not letting her talk in an intimate manner for fear of breaking down and capitulating to her beauty and sweet nature, and also he has not fully recovered from that night...she does not seem to recognise the jarring effect of seeing another man in their bedroom has had on him. He shuffles in his seat and glances up warily. Tears fill her eyes and she stands, hurrying past him and out the door, even before he can attempt to make amends for his cold behaviour. He lowers his paper. She's left the shrug behind.