Natalia pulls away to allow him the drink he so sorely needs. There's a drop of vodka at the corner of his mouth, still pink from kissing. The flush on his cheeks has deepened, the hair she'd smoothed newly wild from her fingers, and Natalia finds herself shaking her head.

"Perhaps I'm no great fan of neatness after all," she says, reclaiming the bottle. He's delaying, she knows, but she trusts that he will tell her eventually. If not tonight, then soon. Given James' habit of bottling that which troubles him most, he'll explode long before she does.