Suits her fine. More than, really, as the pads of his fingers scuff along across thin, thin fabric - catching only briefly once her weight rolls forward towards the counter's edge. It's nearly uncharactaristic how the roughness of his kiss isn't matched in anything but the hold she maintains on him: one hand twisted up like a threat in the front seam of his jacket, the other barely finding the sink beside her in an effort to drop the mug (it hits the edge, spills off down the drain) before latching on at the side of his throat. Her nails dig in, leave raw tracks across old scars like some heavy-handed attempt at redefining what they've left behind. Nearly forgotten.