"You're a fabulous flirt," Gabe states, and it's with all the sarcasm and snark he inherits from his mom. Flirting is nice, though. That is what they're doing, he assumes--flirting.

He's a lot better than his sister and her boyfriend, that's for damn sure. The girl is, too. In a way, Gabe doesn't want to know her name. That's too personal, he'd rather enjoy his new found freedom. Irony doesn't escape him, seeing as his version of 'free' is being trapped in a closet.

Part of him, though, still wants to get at her. Dig deeper, and not just at a level like this, his hands on her hips and faces close. He wants to know why she knows. Why she's in the room with him to start with.

Gabe pushes. Not physically, never physically, but mentally: he's always pushed buttons, forced people out of their comfort zones if need be. Always. Nothing in that aspect has changed as he guides her hips, backing her up until they hit a wall. Gabe doesn't grin, but he smirks instead, and one hand moves from her hip to move up her arm, ghosting over it, and moving to her neck where lifts her chin gently with his fingers.

"Is seven minutes with me really going to kill you?"