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Chert quirked an eyebrow at her over his shoulder. True to form, his thick skull seemed impervious to the subtle touch of double entendre. "Try not to get the furniture damp," he said simply, shutting the door and reengaging the lock with a quick, absent motion that spoke of many days of habit. The bag on the floor attracted an uncertain glance, not because it offended Chert's near non-existent desire for neatness, but because it seemed to indicate that Antony planned on something a little more lengthy than a short "hello-goodbye."

"There's stuff in the fridge, if you're hungry," he said with a hesitant gesture of one hand as he walked over to snag his notebook off of the bed and flopped into one of the room's padded chairs. As far as he was concerned, the offer fulfilled his duty as host. Chert's hospitality had always been rather like an amobea in that it simply spread apart to incorporate whoever was visiting into the usual routine, so when he began to jot notes down onto the paper without giving her a second glance it didn't occur to him that the act was less than polite. If she was liked well enough to be let in, she was trusted enough to help herself to whatever she wanted without someone hanging over her shoulder constantly. That, and it was easier to absorb himself in his note-taking and pretend his minor freak-attack last time had never happened. But who was questioning his motives?

The inside of the duplex was remarkably bland and impersonal for a place that had been lived in for almost a month, with few personal touches to add warmth or personality. None of the furniture had been rearranged, save the bed, which was tucked away strangely into the far corner of the room. A worn duffle back sat next it, still full of clothes and items that had yet to be tucked away into a drawer or a dresser. The top of the nightstand was littered with small flowers, leaves, rocks, and even a few beetle shells. Apart from those small decorations, the only thing to distinguish this duplex from any other of the empty ones were the three wide spots of faint discoloration on the carpet. It was typical of the living space of someone who didn't visit often, or of someone who didn't plan on staying very long- probably both, in this case.

There was nothing particularly interesting in the notebook, just a wall of compact, blocky text that managed to be illegible without being sloppy, interspersed with a few sketches that looked almost like rough maps. Chert lowered it and frowned at Antony out of the corner of his eye. "That would take a measure of talent I just don't seem to have," he grumbled.

Chert's wordless sound of protest ended in a sudden cough of indignation as his attention was wrenched sharply from the notebook to the woman in his lap. That cheeky grin of triumph was becoming an increasingly familiar sight. "Did you come all this way just to harass me?" he asked, the position of his arms mirroring her own. The clammy sensation of the wet seawater creeping into his shorts was unpleasant, but it was mitigated by the warmth Antony generated.

This isn't too bad, that small voice in the back of Chert's head nearly purred.

Shut up, he told it firmly.

Why he'd expected Antony might simply sit and enjoy the peace and quiet, he'd never know. Momentary insanity, maybe. On this island, it seemed to be catching.

Chert's hands moved up belatedly to smooth his hair back down into place. For a moment they had simply paused halfway on their journey to his head, their goal forgotten in the momentary bliss the head-scritching provided. His enjoyment was evident in the relaxation of the eternally tensed muscles in his back and brow-line, but when she removed her hands his jaw was still set stubbornly. Oh, she played dirty. Not fair. Where had she picked that trick up?

"I'm surprised I don't count as furniture-" he said with a dark look that lacked its usual thunder, "-as often as you sit on me."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're completely- Stop that!" He jerked his head back attempted to wave away her hands. "You're completely unbearable."

It was a lie that sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, but he was still compelled to speak it. If he didn't hate her and she knew he didn't hate her, that left most of the advantages squarely in her court and his defenses without any teeth- because really, grumbles and snarls were just empty noises if the other person refused to be upset by them. A tiny amount of frustration instinctively flared to life in his chest to cover up the feeling of defenslessness Antony's claim caused. He wondered what infernal supernatural source this woman's persistence sprang from, and why she had decided to waste it on him.

A small tss! of annoyance hissed through Chert's teeth. The only pair of shorts he'd brought to the island were now soaking wet, and salty to boot. He tried to concentrate on that, instead of the things Antony was saying. There had always been people Chert enjoyed the company of, but when it came to actually admitting it, it was as if there was a sizeable boulder resting between his emotions and the outside world. The actual words were never quite able to make it over the obstacle and into the air, but he thought that was best since no one wanted messy things like feelings floating around everywhere, anyhow.

Antony's constant, deft digs made him feel a little he were a snail being pried out of its shell- and snails had organs attached to their shells, damnit! He didn't speak aloud, but his expression said clearly that, no, he didn't think it was okay to admit anything like that.