She shakes her head at him, unable to quell the smirk, and steps back to give him the room to follow her, when she turns, leading the way. It's a big place, this hotel, and if she were nervous, the banal length of the halls, and the intrusive buzz of the parties would have made an isolating liminal space of the walk between their little make-out corner and the elevator. But his hand in hers was warm, and the air was laughing between them, and the moment seemed to fly past like a dream; she would have said she'd need a buzz to get this kind of feeling, anymore.

But then, maybe somewhere along the line, amidst all the tragedy and death and shortlived hope, she'd gotten brave. Well, brave or something else very similar. Just the same, it's natural as anything to turn around and put her back to the elevator wall as he follows her in, wicked with smiles.

Buzz or no, it would be nice to have something else to blame this on, if it all goes to shit in the next few minutes.

"We've got time," Shepard reminds him, reminds herself, trailing along the studiously tidy dresser-top. She never quite lost the jangle of anxiety that made her avoid clutter, "Party's live for the next week. But... Tell me I'm not misinterpreting this, here, Sam. It's been awhile, for me."