Cal is hearing her words, but not really listening.
"I lied, earlier, when I said I was devastated about the divorce. I'm not."
Happy, she's saying—that's the first thing he noticed.
"I'm wearing pink today, Cal, pink—"
The pink, he thinks quickly, uncontrollably, looks amazing on her.
"And if you do something to screw that up—"
He doesn't hear her threat, because she doesn't get a chance to finish her sentence. Instead, he presses his lips against her, effectively silencing her. Rigidness, at first. Unresponsiveness—surprise. Then, relaxation. A shift toward him—pleasure.
He breaks away but remains close to her, watching her read him, reading her himself. After a moment he turns and walks away, leaving her frozen in the middle of the hallway.
"By the way," he says, turning back but continuing to move away, "I like the pink."
She blinks, waiting until he's turned again to smile and lightly graze her lips with a finger.
He still sees.