She is -- well-aware -- and she does do it on purpose. She is nothing if not purposeful, and direct. A slicing point she's been only too glad to continually train into herself. Unwavering clarity of purpose and intent, the way they've all been trained, but some of them are just ultimately so much better at than the rest. It still throws itself half out the window behind her, when Luther's reaching out on slim longer finger to tap (so much more delicately than anyone even pays attention to anymore, except her) her door closed behind him.

With himself on the inside. Calling her by her full name.

In a way that rides so close to professional rebuke,

in a space that absolutely isn't,
where he isn't supposed to be.

"Is that a punishable offense now?" Allison asks, breezily, her smirk starting to shine through, as her weight settles more on one foot and she tries hard not to already wish she could see his blue blue eyes under the still present domino mask. It's not goosebumps, but the electricity, of the small space, of the forbidden, of Luther, that makes all of her skin prickles everywhere with that door closed behind him. "Perhaps, you need to learn better self-control still, Number One."

There's no apologeticness in her tease, of the longest and strongest thing he can and is and does do, and she only ups her own ante to it by letting go of the clothes she's holding with one hand, and with one finger makes a small gesture in a circle for him to turn around. Toward that door he just closed. Showcasing that she's not sending him away (a thing that almost never happens), but that she's still aiming to get out of her uniform and into plain clothes, and that decorum, that rule they almost live to break without letting anyone quite realizing how much, dictates he isn't even supposed to be there during it, amends to not watching. Or.