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Their first time together is not slow and romantic after a quiet date night. It’s sudden, inelegant and an instant regret: they kiss, her back pressed against the wood panelled wall of his office, because he said something stupid. Then clothes get pushed to the side. Hands find zippers.That kind of thing.It’s not something she does, and not something she’s proud of, but nothing gets Liz over the edge like champagne, having sold a show, and the fear she won't ever see him again. Alcohol finds that desperation in her veins and it combines with the taste of strawberries in his lips. It’s enough to push the air out of her lungs in the form of his name. The fingers griping her thighs are almost tight enough to leave imprints.They finish together, Liz muttering shit, shit, shit, shit, against the crisp white of his shirt between a moan and a sigh.It's her boss, it's their workplace, she's leaving. She can’t say it, but those facts are all in there, bright and clear and swimming in champagne.And between all of that, Liz finds a question in her mind.
Is any of this a good idea?
"I have to start-”"Wait."“-packing my-""Lemon."“-I don't know, plants? Bye, Jack."She is one foot out the door and tripping on her own shaky legs when she feels his eyes following her path. It’s part paranoia and part knowing him too well. He better not be looking at my ass, she thinks, never checking from above her shoulder — there was this greek guy with a story about not looking back.So Liz keeps putting distance between them, erasing with it every thought of consequences. She goes all the way to the west coast. It’s not enough.