[Oh. Now she gets it, and she kind of wishes she didn't. A grimace comes over her face, but then there's coffee and accidental touching and--

Oh. She hates, she hates how good that feels. It's nothing more than a brief moment, certainly not intimate, nothing more than the slightest of touches, and yet the instant it stops her craving grows all the worse. He leaves her feeling cold, her skin prickling and her breath a little shorter.

She's been avoiding this for two days now. And like any addiction, it had been fine when she hadn't been thinking about it, but like it or not, it's the only thing on her mind now.]

It was what I was thinking, yes. You'll excuse me if I have a tendency to distrust people on sight, especially when most of them seem intent on lying with me in one form or another.

[Her fingers tighten around the mug. She wants badly to reach out and touch him, and refuses to on principle. Not only would he surely (surely) be obnoxious about it, but it would be giving in. It would be losing.]

How, ah, how long do these things last, usually? These afflictions.