He walks up to her, with a scotch and his trademark smirk. She meets his gaze for a moment before she rolls her eyes and goes to walk by him. He reaches out and grabs her arm, pulling her to his side.
They're side by side, shoulder to shoulder, each facing the opposite direction.
They won't look at each other.
Her eyes are closed, she's breathing deep, her head remains high, her back straight.
His eyes are trained on the ground, his jaw clenched, his shoulders tense.
A few seconds pass, though it seems like hours.
Ever so slowly his grip begins to loosen; his thumb begins to move on her arm in a gentle caress. Cautiously, deliberately, his fingers begin to trace down her arm until they reach her hand, where they pause before lacing together with hers.
Her cold, hard mask falls, her eyes close. She takes a deep breath, letting the feel of his skin sink in again, before the stony mask is back in place. She pulls her hand free and walks off, never once looking back.
He is standing exactly as she left him; head down, eyes closed, shoulders slumped. But the hand that held hers is slowly flexing, his thumb brushing over his finger tips, like he has been shocked, like he can still feel her hand in his.
The spark was still there. After 25 years apart, after three marriages (for her), after dozens of sexual partners (for him), after hundreds of trips around the world, after billions of dollars spent and earned, after everything they've experienced apart from each other, nothing has been able to erase the simple spark of burning that travels through their skin when it is connected.
It doesn't matter who she's with now, it doesn't matter where he goes next, the spark will always remain, and there is nothing they can do to destroy it.