She's still orienting herself when he moves, and before she realises quite what's happening, he's in her personal space, his gravelled voice filling her ears. She presses herself back, closing her eyes, which was exactly the wrong thing to do, because now she can smell his aftershave and his cigarettes.

Why is it she's supposed to not just -- touch him? She's having trouble remembering why, standing in the lee of his body.

The blood is still returning to her legs, and she takes a step back, but there are shelves, and she over balances. She has to throw out a hand to catch herself.