The night had been a good one. It was a sleepy, slow, warm night in Tree Hill. Luke and Libby had spent it at Trick and Libby had done some singing. The crowd had liked her songs as well. Overall, Libby was happy.

She held Luke's hand as they walked. He had her guitar in his free hand and she was humming stray notes as they walked. "Did you have fun tonight?" she asked, looking over at him with a smile.

*regarding the smoting

Libby fluctuated between being irate and being amused at the latest turn of events. She'd gotten her revenge on Luke though so she was erring on the side of amused at the moment. She walked into the living room where he was writing and hesitated a moment before she spoke.

"Old man on the back porch you gotta stop and ask Mrs. Belle for some of her sweet tea?"

Yes it was a question. Now figure it out and live with it :P

Libby was tired but she was also nervous and keyed up. Usually nightfall calmed her nerves, made that itch go away and gave her a chance to really breathe. Tonight, it wasn't working. She'd been in the truck for ten hours almost straight because she hadn't wanted to stop, hadn't wanted to give anyone that might have been following her a chance to catch up. Her truck, like the good girl that she was, hadn't even protested at the way she'd kept the pedal to the metal the entire drive. The sign welcoming her to Tree Hill, glared in her headlights and she let out a bone deep sigh. She fished her cellphone out of her purse and dialed Lucas' number.

"Hey, it's your refugee. I just pulled into town."

In response to this

"La connaissance charnelle, ma cloche."

“Just bring it home,” she says, eyes still on the TV, “And speak English. You’re in America now, Frog Boy.”

She loves his French and she hates that it makes her knees weak. She hates that he can get to her with just his voice and she hates that he knows it. She hates it even more that he gets to 75% of the female population with his voice. Oh he’s faithful, she knows that for sure. She’s not certain if it’s because of his feelings for her or his fear that she’ll kick his ass into next week.

Two hours later, she’s still curled up in his chair but she’s moved on from watching America’s Got Talent (it doesn’t) to watching A Star is Born and sipping a glass of wine. She’s changed from the blouse and skirt she wore to work into one of his shirts, French cuffs undone. Her short hair is all askew because she’s got a habit of twisting the short strands between her fingers. Sometimes she makes knots that he spends hours undoing.

The door opens and she looks up, mouth curving up into a smile that makes her dimples come out. “All stocked up on carnal knowledge?”

That grin that turns her spine to rubber slinks across his face and he holds up a new book and a bottle of wine. She holds out her glass and moves over to make room for him in the chair. Judy Garland is more his style anyway.