Instinctively, Dory placed a steady hand on Greengrass' arm to ensure the man didn't trip over his own two feet, or, worse, cause the pair to fall as they had in the post office. The book whizzed past their heads, crashing onto the sofa opposite the bookshelf with a softened thud. Dory watched the book up until Greengrass took the step forward, and then his eyes were locked upon the other man.

His hand remained upon Greengrass' arm long after he ought to have dropped it. The similar smell of his aftershave filled the air between them, causing his fingers to tense slightly. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think of anything other than how desperately he yearned to cross the remaining distance between them.

Except, Greengrass had made his decision known, and it was one of firm rejection.

Dory's mouth suddenly felt impossibly dry and still he couldn't move. Even when knowing he was likely about to be decked, he didn't move. (Not like Greengrass could throw a heavy punch, anyway, being the geeky sort that he was.)