( he gestures and she gives, pouring out another generous serving as she hangs on his words. there's a bemused note, because she wishes it was that compartmentalized. as if a story was something that only existed on paper, or with a cursor left blinking back at her. thing is, the story didn't stop once she closed her laptop, or tucked her pen inside a closed notebook, and it didn't keep the bruised corners of that city from growing darker. it would be as easy as clocking out if she didn't keep it all so close-knit, but it's why she'd found it so difficult to find her place at the bulletin to begin with.

she wasn't worried about writing the stories people wanted to hear. she was worried about the ones others were trying to hide. )

Maybe it should. ( count. ) I've heard it all. That it doesn't sell—or that I'm better off letting it go. The 'you're getting too close to this, Karen.' ( her sights drift down to the crystal rim of that glass, tracing it methodically with the tip of her pinky as the lower ridge of her jaw shifts sideward. the thought earns another drink, a bittersweet hum resonating alongside it. )

If I don't get too close, if it's just a day job I can turn off like everyone else, they get away with it.

( 'they.' she's purposefully vague, because decidedly, she's wagered the city could live without her for one night. it'd all be waiting for her just the same come morning. blue aligns with blue once more, and she's giving a playful shimmy of an emptied glass between them. it's as much of a request as the glint in her gaze suggests, a reversal of roles. )