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Honestly, Hap couldn't care less about how she's been. Not in the sense that it's polite to ask: What she's been doing. Working, of course. Same as him. And bookkeeping, apparently, a euphemism he refuses to grant intrigue.

But then she goes on. The half of his mind occupied with ruminating on his own apathy becomes present. Softness wins out.

Can they fight? It doesn't strike him as behavior typical of their relationship, as it is on paper. He and Mel wouldn't fight. At most, they might disagree. They don't talk. They discuss. In the capacity that she comes up, Bella is not a topic, but a tool. Nameless. Sometimes Mel refers to her simply as a woman sometimes she is more critically invoked as a vice. Along with his safeword, Hap has plausible deniability.

"We're... taking a break." Hap shakes his head, laughing. "Which as we all know is code for fighting."

Hap leans an elbow on the bartop, head crooked to one side. "You've been on my mind too." His hand slides across the bar, knuckles to the counter. His thumb brushes delicately along a bruise.

"Really."

The touch is gently, subtly erotic. She's always liked his hands. Bella feels a thrill that's half triumph and half anticipation, and reminds herself that her goal is not to sleep with Hap today. It's not that kind of seduction.

Still. She hopes he's imagining something similar to her: his hands around her wrists, or her wrists tied to his headboard.

"I'm glad to get that cleared up," she says, echoing his laugh. "Now, if you want to tell me what we're fighting about, I can argue with you about it with a little more precision."

It would be too pliable of him to cancel Mel and take Bella out instead, and she may well have other arrangements. He hopes not. He'd like for all the effort she put in to look devastating to have been for him and only him.

"I suppose the crux of it is," his thumb slowly swipes back, forth, "I liked being yours."

And she his, inasmuch as she could be. They're not exactly being conventional about this, are they? Referring him to another woman's services reduced him to a customer. Just one more man in the market for a shapely distraction.

Even expecting something along those lines, hearing him say it sends a jolt up Bella's spine. Not an entirely unpleasant jolt, at all, but a surprise nonetheless, and one she doesn't do a good job of keeping out of her eyes.

She needs a moment to put her thoughts in order. Stall. "Well, God damn it, how am I supposed to argue with that?"

She turns her hand so she can clasp his wrist lightly, her glass-cool palm against his pulse. Maybe the wisest thing to do would be to cut bait here. Remind him of the reality of the dynamic. No matter how much they may like each other, he'll always be a man with a checkbook and she'll be a woman with no past. That was what they agreed on when he first came to the Bower looking for a kind of companionship that standard dating and vanilla escort agencies can't or won't provide -- maybe it wasn't stated in so many words, but the point was that Bella was something to pick up and put down without thought. The trappings of a relationship were meant to be decoration, not -- well. A trap. Not for her, anyway.

So, now that it comes to it, can she be wise? For once?

"I've never had much I can call mine," she finally says, slowly. "But I would never be careless with what is. Not on purpose.

"Did you think I was trying to get rid of you?"

His throat warms beneath his collar, watching his candor take her off-guard. He hasn't seen her struggle like this before. She's very lovely, trying to hold onto something she wants. Treading water over an uncertain abyss, back resolutely to a shore that's still within view. He admires their hands, hers reaching for him. His yet to grasp back.

"Were you?" he asks, raising his eyes to hers. He knows the attempt itself was not the goal. If she wanted to put space between them, for whose benefit was it? Or was she really that selfless a lover, that she thought nothing of it?

She blinks, a little stung that it's a question, and shakes her head. You'd think the fact they're sitting here together, that she not only accepted his touch but reached for more, would prove that to him.

"No, of course not. Come on. If I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn't refer you to someone I like. --That's not what I mean," she says, immediately. "I wouldn't refer you to someone I like at the Bower."

Though there's truth in the slip. If things got to a point where she felt the need to get rid of Hap, she probably wouldn't refer him to anyone at all. Firing a client at the Bower, from what she's heard, is more likely to involve threats than recommendations to other establishments. But if she decided to end it amicably -- if this conversation ends with them walking away from each other -- she'd consider it the least she could do to set him up with another option. Does he think she's unprofessional enough to do otherwise?

"I thought you'd -- I thought it was something I could do for you." Her eyes flick over his face, dark and sharply focused, and unguarded enough to show that glimmer of frustration as well as her need. "Because there are things I can't do for you."

He chuckles silently at her plan for sending him packing. At her quick revision to it, more precisely. There was the possibility that she wanted to meet with him today to do just that, dispelled as soon as she hit him with that dress. She'd hardly be giving him closure by ending things on a vision that visceral.

Without breaking eye contact, Hap turns his hand just so. His fingertips ghost along the inside of her wrist, gracing both blemished and unmarred skin.

He could tell her that he didn't think she would ever get rid of him because she didn't like him enough. It's a double-edged idea: Too much of a good thing. Dangerous on even footing, and the ground is currently unsteady.

"It was boorish of me to assume." Not exactly an apology. "I forgot what it's like just to have someone who cares. No calculations."

In the game of her mind, that's a ball hit back to her so hard she'd never be able to lunge and return it. She reads two possibilities from that. Either he knows how many calculations she makes to keep him happy, and is digging at her, or she's done her job so well that he doesn't, and he was still able to forget that she cared.

Boorish is a word.

Bella inhales deeply, sighs through her nose, and drops her eyes to their hands. After a moment, she pulls back from him, gently, and reaches for her drink instead.

"It's a rare thing in this world. Someone who cares."

It's neither. Hap is the one making calculations, driven by complex motives that cannot, must not, be examined. He works tirelessly to prevent that or else it all comes crashing, burning down. It's that hint into himself, he goes ahead and assumes, the compels her to pull away. Hap straightens in his seat, reaching for his drink.

"I'm not especially adept at it myself." And part of him may have resented her for that, too. That she was able to provide for him in a way that he couldn't for her — so instead he revoked what he could offer until she was desperate to have it back.

She glances at him, about to say That's not true, and stops to consider him.

"What is care to you, Hap?"

Determining and eliminating every obstacle presented to someone's health and longevity. Minimizing their pain. Exploiting their gifts to ensure a better quality of life for future generations.

That's duty.

"A measure of comfort in being helpless," he decides, casting a wan smile over to her.

"Mm. Well, by that definition, maybe I need some practice, too."

She sighs again, propping her chin on her hand.

"Granted, I know how that sounds." Her eyes cut sideways to the bartender, who's busy a few seats down with other patrons. Satisfied they're not going to be overheard, she continues, "Coming from someone you've tied up."

Her joke lands, Hap's eyes dropping in amusement. He picks up his Old Fashioned and has a drink.

"It's a sort of armor, the roles you and I have." Even if they are true to themselves, how can they ever be sure? Of themselves or of each other? That is comfort. Without it, they wouldn't be here, or in the exchange that led them here, or in many of the restaurants and hotel rooms before that. As the warm bite of whiskey fades from his tongue, he adds, "Maybe it's just got a couple dents in it now."

He doesn't like armor, though. He's a man who thrills in taking things apart and seeing their essence. The protection of armor is antithetical to that.

It does occur to her that when he talked about submission with regards to himself, he didn't mention vulnerability. Which could mean nothing, of course; they were texting in the middle of the night about a topic that both of them could probably spend hours dissecting.

"Do you want to take it off?"

He was, before this, or their combined efforts fooled him into thinking he was. And that she was too. It had nothing to do with who tied up who. Bella was never less helpless than when she was alone with him.

Those late night messages, when she couldn't sleep and turned first to him, when his buzzing phone stirred a tired smile because he knew the notification was from her. That was vulnerability.

"Not tonight."

"No, not tonight. You have places to be."

Watching expressions play across his face, her thoughts drift along similar lines. Just talking about what we want, he said. That was Hap, unarmored; that's something she gets nowhere else. Something she'd do for precious few.

She reaches out to touch his knee, thumb stroking his thigh, a semi-conscious echo of how he touched her wrist.

"We don't have to decide right now." A crooked smile. "Anyone ever tell you that you think too much? I get that sometimes. Mostly from myself."

He has places to be. His mood has shifted; he contemplates canceling. Rather, he contemplates dismissing Mel in person and compensating her for the time they were supposed to spend together. But under his skin like a splinter is Bella's comment that someone asked her about him. He can't be certain that wasn't Mel.

Whether or not he follows through with their date, it says something about him. Hap discards the idea of canceling, tempting though it is. It would expose him more than the alternative, and it might do him some good after the tenuous push and pull he's had with Bella, to immerse himself in a set of clearly defined rules.

Hap's hand alights on the back of hers, a tender kiss of fingertips.

"It's been said," he admits with a self-deprecating grin. "But you know how I feel about thinking too little."

The weight of his touch gives her the confidence to let her hand settle there on his leg. This feels more like a détente than a resolution, but it isn't without its victories.

His grin makes her chuckle. It's a relief. "Mhmm. And about questions.

"You can ask me questions, too, you know. In lieu of assuming."

Was it Mel who asked about him?

Does Bella message any of her other clients?

Does she have places to be after this?

Unilaterally, questions that are too telling. He soaks in the gentle pressure of her hand on his leg.

"You were trying to get under my skin with these, weren't you?" His touch ghosts over her bruises. Hap's expression is one of conspiratorial curiosity. He's not looking for another reason to punish her. Not in the way he has these past few weeks.

Her eyes drop to his fingers, and she bites her lip before nodding. It could come across overly coquettish if it weren't so clearly automatic. She does like him touching her, after all.

"Guilty." She looks up through her lashes -- that's a deliberate move. "How'd I do?"

Good. He's proven himself capable of pettiness tonight. That side of him is appeased by her admission that she is too. Her comely delivery of it darkens his eyes, his smile.

Any other set of circumstances, he would be turned off.

Hap wraps his hand around her wrist and squeezes firmly. "Very well."

Bella inhales sharply. The bruises aren't that tender anymore; that isn't the point. The point is picking up where they once left off. If the roles they take on with each other are armor, then this is a place where they can both, for a moment, be safe.

"Can you forgive me for wanting a pound of flesh?" Her voice is a touch throatier. She reaches for her drink with her free hand to take a swallow.

"I can." Hap's grip is steady but for his forefinger stroking up her forearm. "With a bit of work."

Some flesh of his own. He'll process what's been said here, get his head on right by their next date. After all, they're not a couple. He can reframe what he learned tonight as research. A study in Bella. What he doesn't let go, he can restructure to serve them both. With the right perspective, a little jealousy can lead to a lot of fun — but he'll make it clear before they say goodbye that he has no desire to make it a regular scene.

A fizz of arousal makes her shift slightly in her seat, and she reminds herself again that her goal coming here was, and is, explicitly, not to sleep with Hap. Flirtation is fine; hell, it plays to her own petty vengefulness if it leaves him wanting more.

She does feel the need to redirect momentarily, though. Putting down her drink again, she reaches over to cup his chin in her fingers.

"Hap," softly, not unkindly. "Tell me how we stand before we start negotiating my penance."

Her hand drops, brushing over his sternum; with the other, she squeezes his knee.

"And if you don't know, tell me what you don't know."

His heart shudders like distant thunder. Not from her touch, as invigorating as it is. From his importance to her. Her need to know.

Maybe some of it is to protect herself. Emotionally, physically, or both. It would be sensible and he appreciates pragmatism. He can't begrudge her that. She's still willing to risk it for the intimacy they share. If not, she would have walked out on him already.

Releasing her wrist, he takes the hand at his chest.

"I know that I want to keep seeing you. Hearing from you." A guileless quirk of a smile. "Talking to you.

"As... fraught as this misunderstanding has been, it taught me something about you." With humor and humility, "And you about me. And I value that. I do."

Laying that out, he reaches for his drink with his free hand and braces for her response, presumably her reciprocation, with a measured pull.

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