He folds his arms over his chest and leans against the doorframe, a hundred different things flitting across his face. He'd said they were done, but are they? This feels like a more genuine clash of wills than anything previous to it, and he finds himself reveling in it, wanting to push it further.

When Hobbes moans he echoes it. It's a soft sound, barely audible, more a sigh than anything else. But it slips out before he can stop it and hangs there in the air between them.