They ate, relaxing on the sofa and Arthur was careful not to spill. The potage was excellent, although he thought the salmon was a little dry. Ariadne had a decent bottle of white, and they each had a glass, eating easily while the conversation between them moved from one topic to another, nothing too serious for the most part.

Arthur was aware that a definite undercurrent was threading its way through the evening, a subtle but sweet flirtatiousness buoyed up by Ariadne's glances and his own gazes. It felt like standing on the ice again, striving for balance and dignity, but challenging just the same. As he finished his second glass of wine, the dim sound of distant cathedral bells caught his ear, and he realized guiltily how late it was.

Ariadne heard it too, and looked up, her small shoulders flexing. "Eleven," she murmured regretfully.

"I should get going," he nodded, and she rose to go bring his shirts from the dryer.

It was only when Arthur pulled the sweatshirt off that he caught the heat in her eyes, and the sudden rush of desire flared through him, taking his breath for a second with raw sweet speed. In that second he saw himself in Ariadne's eyes, shirtless and lean, ribs visible against the pale skin of his torso.

He shivered, ever so slightly, and that tiny gesture tore the gentle and polite restraints that had kept them apart; Ariadne lunged into his arms and Arthur pulled her up against his chest, blindly seeking her mouth.

Hot, sweet, delicious. Arthur groaned against her lips, the pleasure almost too intense for him. She was warm and slightly flavored with wine and . . . and . . . pushy, he realized with a grin. Ariadne's hands were on his torso, stroking his bare flanks.

"Hey, hey . . ." he gasped, pulling back a second to look down into her face. "What's with the hands?"

Ariadne looked guilty for precisely a tenth of a second, and then purred. "Oh come on—all that bare, beautiful skin? You can't blame a woman for wanting to feel you up a little."

He laughed at the absurdity of the thought, but Ariadne kept staring up at him, and she wasn't joining in. Arthur let his chuckles fade and gave her a wry look. "Give me a break. I'm eighty percent tendon."

"Beg to differ," she murmured, and her fingers skittered along his ribs, coming up to brush his pecs. "You're talking to someone who's looked at a lot of male torsos . . . in marble, that is," Ariadne amended, blushing again, and Arthur had to laugh at that.

"Oh really?"

"Yes," she sulked for a moment. "Archeologist's kid, remember? I've had more statues, busts and caryatids in my face than I care to remember, but my point is that you're very good-looking, Point Man."

The blush started somewhere around his throat; he felt it skim up across his face with the speed and heat of a brush fire.

"Okay, no. My ears stick out, I've got squinty eyes and completely forgettable features," Arthur argued while her hands stroked his chest. He supposed he should stop her, particularly while protesting, but Ariadne's fingers were warm and felt amazing on his exposed flesh. "I'm the least memorable person you're ever going to meet. I've worked HARD for that trait."

"You'll have to work harder," Ariadne murmured, the corners of her mouth going up.

He shook his head, not sure how to respond to her statement, and savoring her persistent touch at the same time. She had small strong hands, and when they skimmed over his nipples, Arthur gritted his teeth against the urge to groan.

"Your body's a classic," Ariadne told him. "Lean, efficient. You'd be a great Spartan; a true Marathoner. No padding at all on your ass, I bet."

He had to stop her from talking; from saying these ridiculous things, so Arthur kissed her again. The brush of her sweater, and the silk of the scarf against his chest made tingles flare through him. She spluttered a giggle against his mouth, and when he pulled back to look at her questioningly, Ariadne slipped her arms around his back.

"Sorry, sorry, I just . . . I know a diversionary tactic when I feel one."

"You're not supposed to be thinking about my ass," Arthur chided her. "I'm going to end up incredibly self-conscious now, wondering if you're staring at it."

"I can't; I'm in front of you," she pointed out with infuriatingly sweet logic. "And the view here is pretty nice too."

"You're nuts."

"Maybe," Ariadne told him gently, leaning in to press a soft kiss along the hollows at the front of his throat. "But you're half-naked and in my arms, so I consider that the best sort of dessert possible."

He tensed a little, and gave her a serious look. "Ari . . . you know I was married."

Her head bobbed and her expression grew serious and a little more guarded. "Yes. Dom said so."

"He told you?" Arthur muttered, surprised.

She shook her head. "I asked. You and he had the luxury of recruiting us; Yusuf and I didn't get to do background checks, you know. Anyway, I asked, and Dom mentioned you were divorced."

"Yeah. About seven years ago," Arthur began, heavily. "It wasn't exactly amicable."

"Is she . . . still in the picture?" Ariadne asked forthrightly.

"No," Arthur assured her with quiet vehemence. "Tess is long gone." He studied the part in Ariadne's hair and sighed. "We lasted less than three years; she cheated on me when . . ."

"When?"

"When I wouldn't change my mind about not having kids," Arthur finished bluntly. "That was one of the big issues, one we didn't really . . . resolve."

He tensed, waiting for the questions, the tell-tale signs of disappointment in her eyes. Instead, Ariadne tightened her arms around him in a firm hug. Arthur hesitated, surprised by the silent gesture, but after a few seconds he hugged back, and the flood of comfort in the deed made it impossible for him to speak for a long, long while.

Ariadne pressed her cheek against his bare chest, and eventually, she murmured, "I'm sorry you were hurt by her."

He found his voice, and it was hoarse. "Thanks."

Arthur kept holding her, because the feel of Ariadne in his arms was right; a good fit full of comfort. He still wanted her, but this other facet was unexpected, and just as sweet. This . . . security.

"I don't really feel like letting you go," Ariadne mumbled. "And it's not just for . . . this."

Arthur realized he felt much the same way, and was glad that she couldn't see his expression at that moment. "I'm not complaining."

They stood entwined together, quiet and comfortable, and Arthur understood that for the first time in years he was completely relaxed with someone inside his personal space. Ariadne didn't feel like a separate entity; she was a part of his consciousness when she was this close.

It was both unnerving and exciting as hell. He cleared his throat in the rush of realization, and Ariadne brushed her lips against the soft tuft of chest hair between his pecs. "Well for what it's worth, I think your ex lost out on someone amazing, Arthur."

Astounded, he pulled back, looking down at her, and Ariadne met his gaze; held it calmly.

"How the hell do you keep doing that?" he asked, blinking. "You make these statements that at any other time I'd be able to brush off, but they slip under the wire and ambush me. What do I say to something like that?"

She pulled away, a little of her confidence gone. "You don't have to say anything," Ariadne murmured. She looked away. "Let me get your shirt . . ."

He could have kicked himself. The warm, golden moment faded, and in its wake was an awkwardness that Arthur wasn't sure how to breech. He carefully pulled on his undershirt and shirt, buttoning them up while Ariadne quietly carried out the dishes from dinner to the kitchen.

Nothing came to mind. He paced a moment, then scooped up his overcoat and stood in the living room. Ariadne drifted out of the kitchen, coming close, but not close enough.

He looked at the floor.

"Thank you for dinner." Ariadne was smiling, but it was slightly sad as she said it. He opened his mouth but nothing more came out. Arthur nodded instead, and slowly walked to the door. She followed behind, out of arm's reach, hovering slightly.

He turned. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Ariadne shrugged, blinking.

"For not being as wonderful as you think I am," Arthur told her heavily. "There's a lot you don't know about me. A lot that isn't nice or good, Ari, and I'm not going to change. Not even for someone as beautiful and incredible as you. I don't . . . I can't, bend."

Ariadne stared at him for a moment longer and he caught a flash of quick fury deep within her eyes, but her small shoulders stayed relaxed.

"You said 'yes'" she reminded him in a voice that wobbled just the tiniest bit. "And whatever else you think you are, Point Man, you're a man of your word. I'm going to Aisne for a couple of days, and when I get back, you either take me to dinner, or take back your scarf."

And somehow, she managed to open the door, herd him out, stand on tiptoe, kiss him deeply and slam the door, all in a fluid economy of motion that left Arthur standing in the hall, stunned, aching and all too aware that his pulse was galloping.

He swayed for a moment, then dropped his forehead onto her door for a second as he scooped up the remnants of his pride, and slunk away.