Allie watches him closely, shrewdly wary. For someone who claims to be eighteen, he's surprisingly confident, almost making her feel like the junior in this situation. And heaven help her, the blasted chip in her neck amplifies the effects of his touch. Her heart thumps a little faster, and her breathing seems loud in her ears. She'd like to claim that he doesn't stimulate her senses in the slightest, but it's laughably untrue.

She clears her throat, unwilling to look away from his face lest he somehow think she was submitting to him. She almost digs in her feet out of sheer stubbornness as he guides her up against the wall.

"Never claimed that," she grumbles, her skin warming to the slow gliding touch of his hand. Allie places her palms on his broad shoulders, and it becomes clear in that instant just how awkward she is at expressing intimacy and affection. She's stiff, almost clumsy. Allie never claimed to be a good kisser, and she's half-dreading the eventual remarks indicating as much. Gabe, on the other hand, seems to be liquid charm, and she has no idea how to handle him.

Attempting to wrest at least some control of her situation into her own hands, she pushes her head forward, almost crushing her lips against his. There's no passion, no sentiment. It's mechanical in nature, intended to shut down any forthcoming jeers and to start the clock. The sooner she's out of here, the sooner she can throttle the person responsible for her being here in the first place.