Paul's heart is racing as he hears the other's footsteps, and he's reminded how long it's been since he hasn't dreaded a gait like that. This is different. This is Loki, and this isn't some social dance-around. This is his friend--this is his fucking soulmate, whether they like it or not--seeking him out purposefully.

Paul thinks that this is what could actually make him happy. Not Irene. It had never been Irene, Irene had just been what he thought he wanted, something he knew he could never obtain. He doesn't have to 'obtain' Loki, though. Loki is his. He's Loki's. They're all consuming.

That lock clicks in a way that Paul always finds satisfying, but not as satisfying as Loki moving toward him with intent. The driver meets him halfway and lifts one grease stained hand to the side of his compass' face to pull him closer into a desperate, wanting kiss, the other hand shifting to the small of Loki's back to press in close, ruining one of those beautifully starched white shirts. Paul doesn't care. He thinks Loki doesn't, either, tongue pushing past the other's teeth in a fit of passion, tasting him completely.