Ariadne was slumped in one of the crappy chaise, the pseudo-IV trailing away from her wrist and over the arm of the chair.
It had been six months, Arthur realized, since he had seen her. It suddenly felt like a long time, and though he was never one to yearn, he had to admit that he had missed her. Fortunately, Eames wasn't there to ridicule him for the softening of his features as he settled a hand on her arm.
He would be lying to himself if he pretended that he hadn't grown inordinately fond of the sleeping woman. Her emphatic gestures when she spoke, the unrivaled creativity and stunning subtlety with which she manipulated and built dreams, the way her hair framed her facethey had all been reminders of how close she had managed to come to things he rarely let people near. Things like his heart and his emotions, things that he tended to keep as f