That makes two of us. I can't stop thinking about it, if I'm being honest.

[ It's part of the reason it's taken him so long to get back to her. Between his own issues and this, Neal's been having a hard time getting out of bed some days. Already the guilt is eating at him and he tries not to show it, but if Charlie's paying attention, she'll easily note his eyes don't lower: If he's looking at her, he's looking at her face; if he's not looking at her face, he's looking elsewhere.

In his room — a semi-tidy offshoot from the living area — it may not be immediately obvious, but Neal has been painting. Canvases stack behind his easel in the corner, pops of color creeping out to the edges. The picture in progress, still sitting on the easel itself, is primarily blues and blacks, cut with a searing, pale yellow, both stark and abstract against the dark background. Evocative of moody thunderstorms, it's not Neal's favorite medium, nor does it accurately represent anything of his 'true' art style, but it's there and probably meant something to him while he was busied with its building process. ]

Do you want to sit down? [ He gestures to his perfectly made bed, trying to be the decent host he knows he can be. ] How about a drink?