She's trying very hard here to cover up her weakness the first time they met. She'd been a bit drunk, then, too many mimosas in too little time. Vulnerable, mostly, in a way she doesn't like to be. And he'd gotten through all that vulnerability pretty tidily--enough that she'd been the one taking the initiative. Now, she's reclaiming her initiative, without the help of alcohol--she's only had half a glass, and she's got a far clearer head. But all that amounts to jack shit when he raises his hand to her face.

Even someone as used to physical contact as Porrim can't help but shiver a little at the barely-there brush of his fingers against her temple. But when he holds up her own goddamn phone from her own goddamn purse, her eyes widen and she pulls back in surprise. "Hey--" she starts, indignant, annoyance flaring up again before he goes on and cuts her off.

And fuck, he's right. Not that she needs him in some weird, soulmate kind of way. But she needs him to teach her how to loosen up the right way. He's the kind of guy who'd know, after all, from what she can tell. And maybe, just maybe, she needs a little bit of intimacy after a long, self-imposed dry spell. So she just huffs, resisting the urge to snatch her phone back. That would be petty. "It's off," she informs him coolly. "And--maybe." She wouldn't have invited him back here if he weren't at least partly right.