In the morning he listens to her in the bathroom, getting ready for a night at Liara's house. When she's done he waits for her to go into the kitchen before he slips into the bathroom, hunched up like a guilty dog.
He jacks off in the shower, thinking of her there just a quarter of an hour before, the scent of her filling his head. He remembers the dig of her fingers into his bare groin and his forehead presses into the cool tiles as he comes, his mouth working silently to stifle an aching groan, his breath catching with each spasm of his hips.
He goes out for a jog after he comes back from C-sec. He can't last as long as he used to, and he runs himself to the breaking point, crashing down into the floor at the end and gasping, his throat raw, his nose burning, his breath coming haggard. He pulls himself together and goes back inside, his boots clomping heavily over the foyer.
It's past midnight and he's sprawled out across the bed, half-asleep, when he hears her come in. There's half a bottle of whiskey and a highball glass, sticky at the bottom, on the nightstand, and that's actually the first thing he thinks about, that she'll see it there.
"John?"
It's a stage whisper and he hears it across the room. "I – I'm awake," he stammers, and then rolls upright, scrubbing his fingers hard down into his scalp. He sees her moving across the room, shadow-like.
"Don't get up," she says, but he's already out of bed, the bottle and the glass clinking together in one hand.
"I gotta put this stuff away anyway," he mutters, although it's a pretty thin excuse; he has never been a particularly conscientious housekeeper.
She navigates carefully around the kitchen to pour a glass of water, and as he stands in the doorway she pours another one for him. He accepts it with a nod.
"Been drinking?" she asks him pointedly.
"Couldn't sleep," he says. "Achy. Inferior copy and all that."
She lifts an eyebrow, like striking out his self-deprecation and his evasion with a quick red pen, before moving out of the kitchen. He downs his glass of water before following her and he finds her sitting in her spot on the couch.
He joins her, like he always does, but there's something heavy on them, a difference in the air.
"Didn't know you were coming back tonight," he says.
She shrugs. He can see her throat working, the long pale line of her neck, and realizes she's not wearing a scarf. Her red hair (she had allowed it to grow longer since the war ended) hides the scar in shadows. "I told Liara I wanted to sleep in my own bed tonight."
John nods.
"Can't imagine she was happy about it."
Her eyebrows go up. "She didn't seem to mind it much, actually."
She smiles and he can tell, even in the darkness, that it's not a happy smile. Then she uncurls and pats her lap. "Gimme your feet."
It startles a little laugh out of him. But she pats her lap again so he twists and scoots down and stretches out and his bare feet are cushioned in her lap.
For a little while they're quiet. She plays with his feet, stroking light fingers over the long bones, nipping her fingers between his toes, knuckling into his arches, which tickles him a bit. He finds himself laughing and she hefts up his foot with both hands to place a kiss on the narrow top. Her lips are wet and he prickles all over like a wave.
She's moving then, crawling up to settle in beside him, her face nestled in the crook of his shoulder. John bites his lip and asks, "May I?" She looks up at him, sees his hand lifted, shaking, and she rolls her eyes and says "Do what you want." It's the kind of toss-off, cavalier answer he's come to expect from her but she smiles when he sets his hand to her red hair.
She doesn't seem to notice, or at least she's good at pretending she's not aware, how the physical contact makes his hand shake.
She looks at him for a beat. Her smile fades. She adopts a pensive expression, almost serious. He feels her body shift as closes the short distance between them.
Her face is close to his now, much too close and he can barely keep himself from running. The weight of the moment threatens to swallow him. Even she hesitates. He sees the kernel of doubt in her eyes. A moment passes, she sets her jaw with determination and he knows they are both lost.
When her mouth finds his, he's aching for it.