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“Hello, Margo,” he says, like he hasn’t been missing for twelve weeks.
“Hello, Lamont,” she says. “Where’ve you been?”
He squints at her for a moment, rocking on his heels. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain making his hair and clothes stick to his body--he looks so feverish she doubts he knows what’s going on. “Siberia. Then Nepal. Then the Himalayas. Can’t go to Nepal without visiting the Himalayas.”
“Uh-huh." He doesn't move. "Are you just going to stand out there and catch your death?”
He blinks at her. She grabs him by the tie and drags him inside. It’s gone pebbly but still feels well-constructed. “Nice tie.”
“Thanks. Brooks Brothers.”
“Hope you don’t like it too much.”
He looks confused for a moment, right before she yanks it off him, permanently warping the silk. “What…”
She gives him That Look, and even half gone he knows to shut up and let her undress him. She peruses the coat tree and finds nothing but a cousin’s abandoned fur coat. Close enough. She pulls it down and flicks it over his shoulders. It’s far too small so she tugs him along to the parlor and parks him in front of the fire. He hums, evidently pleased, and lets her rub the soft lining of the coat along his absolutely freezing shoulders and arms. “That’s nice.”
“You’re an idiot.”
He leans into the touch of her hands, even through the coat. “Maybe. But I found out a lot about the girasol.” He flashes that stupid ring at her.
“Did you even bring a proper hat?” He is silent. He scaled the Himalayas in his stupid fedora. “I rest my case.”
“Mm.” He nuzzles his cheek into the soft fur. “Good thing I have you.”
“Damn straight,” she says. “Damn straight.”