McCoy's feeling pretty heady. He hasn't had enough to drink to make him tipsy, let alone drunk, but there's something about the smell of a woman's hair, the faint miasma of her whole being, and he's been captivated by it before to his detriment. He feels like he deserves this again. "Couch?" he checks, kissing her lips lightly as he pulls away just enough to ask. "Not the bed?"