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Samira shouldn’t have come; she knew she'd regret it. It’s why she arrived pretty late to begin with.
The day shift decided to go out for drinks after ending the first semester of the year with so few casualties. A miracle, really. Could only mean the second will be messy, though no one mentioned it. Makes sense; why ruin the festivities when everyone enjoys drinking?
Some more people came. Like Dana’s husband, Langdon’s wife. Even Dr. Abbot — he's the one who knows the owner and always convinces them about private gatherings, so he’s always invited. Some other people didn’t. Mel let everyone know she wouldn’t be able to come, having to take care of her sister. Donahue left early, from what she’s heard. In fact, she’s also heard Heather showed up. Said her hellos, stayed for a couple of minutes, then left. It would’ve been nice seeing her.
The moment she arrived, in a nice-looking blouse and pants with enough pockets she could avoid a purse, notoriously drunk Santos immediately waved her over to their booth. It was her, Whitaker, Garcia, and now herself. Well, Trinity was practically rambling at this point, alternating between excited — because she showed — and charming — because she needed to use a pick-up line on Garcia every five minutes. Whitaker has been pleading for Santos to stop drinking so they can head to her place since she arrived. To no avail, obviously. This leaves her and Garcia to have a decent conversation, except they’re not really close enough to hold an out-of-work topic.
Hm. Even if they were, Samira doesn’t think she could do it.
More because Santos doesn’t stop interrupting with half-assed flirting attempts. Garcia returns her teasing without missing a beat. Sure, their talk drifts back to flowing nicely without effort, though it’s… Not all.
Samira is under the weird sensation she’s being stared at. In the middle of her sentences, she turns to the side, glances around. Nothing. Returns her focus to the conversation. But it doesn't stop. It’s similar to when Dr. Robby observes her during work. Not the case. She’s not working, and Robby is leaning — lying — on the counter. One hand over his face, the other gripping a glass. Plus, he’s facing the opposite direction; he couldn’t be looking. Not for this long.
Her paranoid distress must be written all over her face, since Garcia addresses it.
“Mohan? You good?”
She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, no, I'm find. It’s… Weird. Feels like I’m being watched.”
“Watched?” Garcia glimpses at the sides, over her shoulder, then tilts her head to look behind Samira. “Abbot’s staring, that's what you mean?”
Ah. It makes sense she didn’t see it. He’s sitting by the counter, pretty much behind her. Unless Samira shamelessly snaps her head to the side and turns around. She… Doubts she is capable of it. “...I think he’s been staring at me since I got here. Is- Is my hair okay? Do I have something on my clothes, my face?” Samira tries to see her reflection in one of the glasses on the table. Not hers; too full to mirror anything. She doesn’t even remember what she ordered— Garcia’s suggestion — but it tastes okay.
“You’re fine, don’t bother.”
“Oh, you’re fine. Real fine.” Santos mumbles, sipping her own drink with a grin. It’s… Vibrant. Bright bordering on radioactive.
Garcia scoffs. “You won’t be when I’m done with you.”
They keep talking. Samira stopped paying attention when they got on about how many fingers they’d need to get each other off; she’s now maintaining eye contact with Abbot. She did shamelessly snap her head to look behind her. Everyone’s drinking until they pass out. Why would they bother?
He is very much staring. Ominous isn't too far off to describe it. His eyes move along when she tilts herself even slightly to the side. People can look, absolutely, but not for 30 minutes straight. What is wrong with him?
“Should I ask if…?”
Santos groans, dragging herself down the seat until she manages to press her forehead onto the table. Flustered. “Unc likes you.”
What the hell?
Slowly, her head turns until she meets Santos. Her own eyebrows are furrowed, yet she can’t force them to relax. Samira doesn’t even know what to ask. Where did she get this? Why would it make him glare at her so hard? ‘Unc’?
“Huh?”
“He’s got a soft spot for you. Tell her, Huckleberry.”
He groans. “If I agree with you, can we leave?”
“No. I’m trying to get laid here. Samira should do the same.” In defeat, Whitaker crosses his arms over the table, resting his face between them. Mumbles something about waking him up when she’s ready to go.
She frowns. “I am not sleeping with my attending. That is not up for discussion.”
Garcia shrugs. “You could. I bet if you walked up to him and said you two are heading your place, he wouldn’t complain.”
“Drunk. At least ten years my senior. I- I answer to him at work. I’m- I’m- no. No. Not happening.”
“Come on. The staring? That’s gotta be his weird fucking way of pleading.”
“What if you take him to his place?” Santos interjects. “He’s obviously not sober, but his truck's in the driveway. Someone’s gotta drive him.”
“Robby, probably.” Samira murmurs.
Santos chokes back a laugh, sipping her drink. “Robby? He’s clearly drunk as fuck. Said he wasn’t having more than one beer, then Heather showed up, and he changed his mind as soon as she left.”
“Both drinking because of women.” Garcia nods in Abbot’s direction. “Doubt he’ll let anyone drive him besides you. So do it. Who knows where you’ll end up.”
“I’m… Why are you acting as my wingmen, again?”
“Abbot’s pretty sick,” Santos says with her glass against her lips. “You too. Together you’d make a mean power couple.”
“Emery said she’d owe me one if I made Abbot shut up about you. Pisses her off."
Right. Always the best of motivations.
“...Is he still staring?”
Garcia tilts her head, then nods. Of course he is. Sighing, Samira squirms out of the booth and stands up, slipping her hands into her pockets. Whitaker lifts his face.
“Can’t fucking believe I’m doing this sober.”
On the way to where Dr. Abbot sat, Samira attempts to avoid his gaze. It’s impossible when it nearly blazes through her skull, so she ends up meeting it dead on. He stays unmoving, except for his eyes, which trail after her steps. Samira now stands in front of him. Her expression could be best described as defeated.
“Jack.”
“Miss Mohan.”
Her presence doesn’t seem to change anything. He continues to explore the depths of her mind through her pupils, her essence through the shade of her irises, and her morals through her glaring eye whites. She has… Mixed feelings about his analysis. In general, though, it’s uncomfortable. His breath reeks of alcohol. His words drag at the end.
“...For how long will you stare?”
Abbot must finally catch on to what he was doing, the way he blinks and lowers his head, eyes now fixed on his glass. Whiskey, the color tells her. His neck heats up until nearing crimson, the shade spreading to his already flushed face. Samira can also feel her own cheeks burning at his reaction.
With a deep inhale, she sits on the stool beside him. Intertwines her fingers, rests her hands between her thighs. “How much did you drink?”
He shrugs.
“Did you drive?”
He nods.
“How are you going home?”
Samira waits for a few seconds. Maybe even a minute. He doesn’t answer.
“Can you talk?”
“...No.”
Ah. Lovely. Not just drunk; stubborn, too. For a moment, heading to the booth or even leaving the bar suddenly appears to be more reasonable than doing anything with him. The only reason she doesn’t do so is because Abbot has a history of getting into bar fights. She personally hasn’t seen it, but if he’s left alone and it happens, she’ll blame herself for it.
Without much thought — she might question herself if any — Samira stands from the stool. The movement makes him turn his head, locking eyes with her again. At this… State, only sternness will earn his collaboration. Which shouldn’t be hard. She’s, one, not in the mood to deal with drunk people. Despite her abilities, they irritate her. And, two, she’s really in need of an excuse to leave. This is the only one where Trinity won’t insist she stays.
“Come on. I’m driving you.” Samira shoves her hands into her pockets once more.
There’s a miserable attempt from him to try to raise his eyebrows before he turns to his glass again. He rubs a palm across his face. “I’m not ready to go yet.”
“Did it sound like a question?”
His hand stills. Snakes to the counter for support as he pushes himself to his feet.
“Thank you. Do you need help walking?”
Abbot shakes his head. Pulls out his wallet, narrowing his eyes to search for the right card. Every slip of his finger through the partitions is sluggish; by the time he finds it, the guy behind the counter has already handed her the coupon and her own card back. Abbot frowns.
“...My bill.”
“Pay me when you’re sober.” She extends a hand. “Keys. SUV.”
He glances down without hesitation, patting his front pockets. Grabs the key fob and hands it to her. Then Samira guides him to the exit by the forearm. Perhaps she didn’t have to do that; Abbot doesn’t stumble or wobble. But she felt like it; he didn’t stop her.
Getting to his truck isn’t hard. It’s parked right by the entrance; he must’ve arrived early. Convincing him to get into the passenger seat isn’t an issue either — getting him to fasten his seatbelt, on the other hand, is a struggle. She has to do it.
The first thing he does after she settles on the driver’s spot and starts the engine is turn on the radio. Some dad rock starts playing. He doesn’t change it. Samira simply lowers the volume before pulling out onto the road. She knows his address; she can figure out the way there.
The drive takes almost an hour. It’s mostly quiet, besides the voices from the audio channel. Abbot dozed off after twenty minutes, and they barely talked before he did. Samira asked for one or two directions, which he responded to without trouble, and he… Well. It was an interesting exchange.
“Mohan...”
“Samira.”
He nods. “Samira.”
“I’m listening.”
“You’re… No. Are you… Taken?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
She sighs. “Did I correct you when you called me ‘miss’?”
“...No.”
“Then what do you think?”
“Single,” Abbot murmurs, given a moment.
In response, Samira hummed in agreement. He didn’t add anything else, it was when he closed his eyes. He remained asleep as she pulled up in front of his garage. After a moment of hoping he’d stir, she unbuckles herself. Then him. Yet the click of the buckle and the snap of the strap back into place were not enough to wake him.
Lightly, she taps his shoulder. “Jack?”
His eyes part open. It’s slightly unsettling how he otherwise remains motionless.
“We’re here. Do you need help inside? Where are your keys?”
“Robby.”
“...What?”
“M’keys. With Robby.”
“I- Are you fucking kidding me? You… You’re telling me that now?”
“You’re asking now.”
“Oh, thank you. I couldn’t use the information before.” She scoffs. “Put your seatbelt back on.”
“We’re going back?”
“No. I’m going to my place. You’ll sleep on the couch. Unless the drunkard wants to pass out on his porch? Either way, I’m not walking.”
“You don’t need to insult me.” He buckles up.
“You lost your privileges to reasonable Samira. You’re drunk, you’re a hassle, and you’ve pissed me off.” She does the same; starts the car, reverses into the road.
“If I knew you’d show up, I wouldn’t have drank so much.”
“What difference would I make?”
“A lot, if you ask me.”
Samira scoffs. A lot. What does he mean? He wouldn’t drink to chat her up? Abbot would stay sober so she would drink and he could drive her home? Or did he not want her to see him like this, completely out of it? Harsh. Is she being overly harsh on him? Usually, she handles worse drunks better. Why is Abbot getting on her nerves? Shit, hopefully he won’t hate her in the morning.
“I’m- I’m sorry. It’s the kind of thing I should expect. I shouldn’t have snapped.”
“No, no. It’s alright. You’re right. Should’ve mentioned it.”
The engine turning back on cuts through their conversation. Samira maneuvers back to the road without comment.
To her place, it’s a shorter drive. Just as silent, certainly more tense — although she’s clearly the only one bothered, he drifts to sleep the same. At least she doesn't have to address it.
This time, though, after she parks in the driveway of her building and unfastens his seatbelt, he does stir.
“Hey,” she whispers, “can you get out on your own?”
Abbot groans. "I’ll stay here. Don’t want to bother you.”
“What do you mean, ‘stay here’? In the car?”
He nods. Deep breath, Samira.
“Don’t… Don’t. No.” Samira leans into his direction. Pushes his door open with some struggle; proceeds to exit from her own side after grabbing the keys. She steps towards the entrance, leaning against one of the pillars with crossed arms. It’s meant to be a glance, but she practically glares at the SUV. “Get out of there.” Her exasperated tone has him scrambling out of the truck given a few seconds, though she waits until he catches up to enter the edifice.
The foyer is empty at this late hour. So is the elevator when it opens for them. Oh, Abbot’s also back to staring; his pupils track each and every movement of hers, yet not a sound leaves his lips during the whole ride up — makes it even more terrifying. He’s just… Standing there. Menacingly. Samira has to clear her throat and meet his gaze for him to notice he’s doing it again. He murmurs an apology, she doesn’t miss how his neck reddens. His eyes are locked onto his shoes the next time she peeks at his figure.
Their aligned footsteps echo through the brief corridor leading to her apartment. When they come to a halt, the jingle of her keychain is what fills the silence. She unlocks the door and pushes it open, stepping inside and waiting for him to do the same. He does; he’s actually pretty compliant, thinking about it. Good at following orders. Well. When he’s not sober, at least. It’s easy to guess where he got that from.
Her place is far from big. A bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen. It’s… Decent enough for comfort. Not quite made to receive guests. For tonight, it’ll have to do.
She switches the light on, getting her sneakers off with her feet and placing them into the shoe rack beside the door. Slides on her slippers, hangs his keys on the holder attached to her door. “Sit. I’ll get you some water.”
Samira crosses to the kitchen. Glass from the cabinet, cold water from the fridge. Abbot’s settled on the couch, pressed right to its arm, as if trying to take as little space as possible. Shoeless, she notes. Peering her way, she also notes. His body is notoriously taut, there’s a vein popping from his neck. He’s still, too; she could position him like a mannequin.
“Here.” Samira strides back, handing him the glass. Which he takes. Thanks her, downs in one go, then lowers it to his lap with both hands. “Good. Now lie down and sleep.”
“I’m not..." His voice falters as he muffles a yawn. "Tired.”
Is he…? Being stubborn on purpose?
“Not tired? You- you literally just yawned. Fell asleep twice during the drives.”
“Enough rest.”
“I– No? Definitely not enough rest.”
“I’ll sleep when I get home.”
He is. He has to be. Because he can’t be fucking serious.
“No. I’m not arguing with you. You’re intoxicated, I get the upper hand.” Samira crouches in front of him. “Roll up your pants. I’m getting your prosthetic off.”
“You don’t–”
“Pst.”
“You–”
“Psst.”
Abbot blinks. Seals his lips. Visibly, he short circuits. Would’ve been cute if he wasn’t a grown man.
She pushes the hem of his right pant leg up, holds it there. Slips her other palm to grasp the shin tube, then up. His trousers aren’t denim, so it doesn’t seem too hard to get the prosthesis off without taking them along.
“Hold it for me.”
One of his hands leaves the glass to clutch the bunched-up fabric. Both of her own now rest on the socket. Does it hurt to take it off? Asking is an option, absolutely, though he’ll say no even if it does. She’s choosing to be deliberate one way or another. Pressures with her fingers, drags the fiber down. Whether Samira’s doing it right or not, he doesn’t complain.
“You shouldn’t be.” He mumbles under his breath, tipping his head into the cushion behind him.
“...Careful?”
“Single.”
Oh. Oh, okay.
“Yeah?”
“Mhm. You’re radiant. You’re smart. So fucking smart… Smarter than the whole department put together. Doesn’t make fucking sense. Is it by choice?”
“What do you think?” The prosthetic’s off. She sets it on the couch arm and stands.
He lets go of the fabric. “Has to be. Anyone with common sense would…” His voice drifts off. Shit. Maybe Santos and Garcia were right. “Agree.”
“Agree? Society likes beautiful, not smart.” She nods to the couch. “Lie down.”
Abbot places the glass on the floor and does so. Scoffs at her answer. “You’re both. I’d tell you that every day.”
She raises an eyebrow. He immediately apologizes. Twice. He really is something. Samira expected he’d be the stubborn drunk, the slightly charming drunk. Even the compliant drunk didn’t amuse her. But then there’s this one. A loose-tongued drunk shy about his own confessions. It’s what she’d see in a timid teenager, not a veteran full of edges. Not that she can’t handle it — it’s exactly what she’s been doing since her first comment about his gaze — she merely finds it an… Interesting observation.
“You ready to sleep? Or gonna embarrass yourself further?”
He sits up. His jaw clenches tight. If it weren’t for his notorious flustered state, she would expect to be scolded. “I can’t. Sleep. At night. Only during the mornings.”
“Why? Because of your shifts? Oh, speaking of work, I’ve been told I’m your favorite resident.”
“...Dana asked.”
Actually? He somewhat reminds her of drunk Santos — exclusively in the loose-tongued aspect. If he weren’t so clearly tired, perhaps he’d articulate more, too. Hm. Garcia manages her well. With her curt, flirty comebacks and some absurdly graphic stuff. Unfortunately, Samira doesn’t have the courage to do the same with Abbot (not clearheaded, at least), as she is utterly aware of the massive power imbalance there is between them. Explicit is too far. But on the other hand, she can… Imply some stuff. He’s doing the same; it’s only fair. Besides, she has only the best for him in mind. Rest.
She presses her knee to the edge of the couch, next to his thighs. “So I’m your...”
"Favorite."
"Favorite resident? Favorite coworker? Favorite everything?"
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
“The smartest in the department.” She leans forward.
“Mhm.”
“Yet you don’t listen to me.”
“I listen. I’m- I’m listening.”
“Are you? Because I told you to sleep.”
“I can’t–”
She tilts his head so they’re face-to-face. “You could try.”
“I could. Fuck, I could.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” No more than a breath of distance. “From now on, you’ll listen, mhm? You’ll listen?”
He nods.
“Behave? Do as I say?”
His lips part. He goes for a mumble, then gives up halfway through — the sound comes out as a gasp instead. With it, a keen attempt at nodding again.
“Good. Then you’re gonna…” A palm presses to his shoulder until he budges and falls back. She has to cling to the couch arm behind him to follow his face as it drops and keep eye contact. Lowers her voice to a whisper. “Close your eyes…” His breath hitches. Chest visibly stills. Yet his eyelids flutter shut without him voicing a protest. “And sleep.”
Samira proceeds to straighten up and leave. Enters her bedroom without looking back to check his reaction — she knows he didn’t move, the noisy cushions would give him away. Continues her night as she would on any other day. Rummages her closet for clean sleepwear, changes, then crosses to the bathroom. Makeup off, teeth brushed, skincare meticulously done. Not a single change to her routine despite the man in her living room, except for the late hour. She can’t complain; she isn’t the only one who’ll suffer because of it. Tomorrow, the department will be a shit show.
Before stepping out, she draws her medicine box from the sink cabinet. Neatly organized (in contrast to the mess on the kitchen counter or the fumble of clothes in her room), it’s easy to find the Advil she seeks. Gets one of the blister packs and only then does she unlock the door.
Abbot’s asleep. She can tell the moment she exits the bathroom. He snores. Not obnoxiously loud, thank fuck, but he does. The ibuprofen she places on the counter, after piling up some dishes and empty takeout bags for space. With it, she also leaves a glass of water — picks up the one he already used, fills it again, covers the top with one of the small plates she has. Just to make sure no bugs will get inside. Samira also grabs him a blanket from her closet, attentive to pick out one that doesn’t smell of dust. Covers him with more gentleness than she’d ever admit. Catches herself… Staring.
Strange. To see him like this. Abbot’s not a man who lets his guard down easily. Yet there he is, splayed on the couch — her couch — as if he does it every day. Either tired or relaxed enough to sleep, using the not-so-soft back cushion of her couch as a pillow, and now snuggled in a blanket of hers. He sleeps on his right side. Perhaps it’s his intoxicated condition that made him rely on her so easily (who in their right mind hands over their car keys without question?), Though if she is a bit self-centered, it could’ve been because it was her. It’d… Make sense. Connects well with his “confession”. Also connects well with what Garcia and Santos told her.
Is it that? He trusts her enough to handle him? She kind of hopes so. She trusts him. Enough to let him stay over.
Samira turns off the living room light before entering her bedroom. Prepares her bag, crawls into bed and settles for the night. Sleep comes unsurprisingly fast; the weight of the day comes crashing down on her as soon as she lies down. It’s the best possible outcome for her — no musing about his words and its evident implications.
Morning comes earlier than usual. Her alarm doesn’t go off, soft brightness shines through the thin curtains of the window above her bed. From somewhere else in her apartment, noise. Abbot’s likely awake. Sighing, she reaches for her phone. Not even 5:30 yet. Why the hell…? With a groan, she stands up. Picks up some clothes, her bag, and strolls out of her bedroom.
First thing she notices is her clean counter. The crumpled paperbags gone. The plates and cups washed, on the drying rack beside the sink. Then Abbot, out of place in her tiny kitchen, yet somehow looking right at home. His back is turned to her; the sound of running water fills her ears.
She throws her bag onto the couch. “What the fuck are you doing?”
He glances back. Casual. Smooth. “Your dishes.”
“I– Why are you…” Samira drifts off, lips parted as she fails to form any words. Deep breath. “Get some more rest. It’s not even six in the morning yet.”
“Making up for the inconvenience I caused. Hope you can forgive me.” Lowering the plate in his hand, he turns to face her. The ceramic makes a sharp noise despite his gentleness to place it down on the marble. It’s likely what woke her up.
He leans against the sink cabinet. “Not staying. You work.”
“Yeah, so? You don’t.”
“So I'm not staying at your place by myself. I’ll drive you to the department, then I’ll go home.”
“Oh. You don’t have to.”
“I’m not taking no for an answer. I have to get my keys with Michael one way or another. It’s the bare minimum after causing you so much trouble.”
Right. The trouble. “I’ll…” Samira glances down to the folded garments in her hand. “Have to accept the offer. Better than the bus.”
“Bus? Car broke down again?”
“Yeah. Can’t get the engine going.” She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll… Thanks.”
If he answered, her ears didn’t catch it — she entered the bathroom without further engaging in any talk, the creak of the door silencing whatever he voiced. For the best. They could not continue the conversation without awkwardness. It’s weird. In no way should her attending be here, in no way should the atmosphere be as domestic as it is.
Her sleep shorts pool at her feet as they get dragged down her thighs. Her oversized band shirt also meets the floor. She’s quick to change into what she brought: sports bra for comfort, some lightweight garments, silly-patterned socks. The little time she actually spends getting ready is mostly dedicated to smoothing out her frizzy morning hair.
Before shuffling out to snatch her shoes, Samira hangs her nightclothes on the towel rack, along with a few other blouses that aren’t quite dirty enough to meet the laundry basket. She’ll fold them all later, she tells herself. As if her mind will bother recalling to do that after a tiring shift. As if she’d do it even if she remembered to.
Abbot pacing back and forth behind her counter is the first view she gets after pushing open the door. His head snaps to her figure at the creak of the bathroom door, he’s crossing the living room and handing her a steaming mug in the blink of an eye.
“Oh, uhm. Thanks.” She swishes the coffee around before having a tentative sip, sitting on the arm of the couch.
In response, he nods. Faces the hallway. “WD-40 on the bathroom door hinges should handle the squeaking. I have a can in my trunk if you want me to fetch it. I could also have a look at your car, mess with the engine, see if I find the issue...”
“I think if you start with that now, I’ll be late for work.”
Abbot hums. Nods. Takes her cup after she’s finished, cleanses it. “Fair enough.”
Embarrassment. It’s the most reasonable explanation. He’s… Not the best with words, she learned that, so his way of apologizing is with actions. Which works for her. Having her counter cleaned and dishes washed for babysitting an intoxicated acquaintance? More often than not, all she gets is a headache. Sign her up.
Samira almost thanks him for waking her up earlier. She’ll be exhausted when the caffeine leaves her system, yet he benefited her with a peaceful morning. No hurry. No pressuring this peculiarly comfortable pace. Nothing for her to worry about. She almost wishes for this to happen again. If it wasn’t for his higher position in the department, if he weren’t considerably older… Then she’d consider. But amma would never approve of him.
Her musing ceases along with the tap closing. Abbot threads through her living room to the entrance, grasps her sneakers, and brings them to her without a word. She responds with a murmur of acknowledgement, leaning forward to untie the laces. Only when she’s tightening them again does his voice come through.
“I’m sorry for the… Nuisances I caused last night.”
“It’s alright. You had already apologized, I think.”
“No. I hadn’t. But I’m doing it now. My behavior shouldn’t be excused because of the alcohol.”
“Well. Either way, you certainly made up for it.” She stands up, gestures towards the door. He's flustered, now that she's looking.
“I’d do more if you let me.” Abbot reaches for the key holder, fiddles with his car fob, then pockets it.
“You don’t owe me anything. You know that, right?”
“Maybe I don’t. But I have my reasons.”
“Your reasons?”
He chuckles. The sound is low, brief; to her, a first. “I thought I made them clear last night. I’m… Very fond of you, Samira. I won’t deny that, nor will I press.” He opens the door for her. “You have my number. Call me if you want me to… Check your car or... Something. I’ll get the message.”
Suddenly her own ‘ifs’ sound daft.
If it wasn’t for his higher position in the department. But she’s already a senior resident; soon, she too will be an attending. She could also avoid nights, keep professional and personal well-distinguished. If he weren’t considerably older. But they’re both responsible adults; without his experience, she doubts she’d… Admire him as much as she does. Admiration? Is it all? Then there’s amma. Amma… Has never approved of any of her partners, except those she chose herself. Dwelling on her blessing will do nothing but eat her alive.
Suddenly she wants to try.
“Yeah.” She tugs her bag and follows him out. Locks her apartment. “I’ll make sure to call.”
Abbot waits for her — hands on his pockets, neutral expression. Tails behind as would a shadow. For a split second, she hesitates, then waits for him to catch up. When he stops instead of doing so, Samira backtracks and tucks her arm between his, resting her hand on his forearm. The touch makes him falter, eye her with what she'd guess is bewilderment. He answers to her approach with a nod; his footsteps align with hers as soon as she resumes her stroll to the elevator.
Make sure to discover where her wants take her.