Irony is something Kenzi is painfully familiar with. It's stalked her her entire life and she's pretty sure she's going to die ironically, maybe being robbed by some petty thief in an alleyway or breaking into someone's house.

But this is just too much.

"You can't sing!" she somehow manages to chortle around her laughter, rocking back against the couch. "I can't believe it." A siren whose singing voice sounds like gargled nails. Who'd have thunk, right?

Hale smiles good naturedly at her. "I can sing, baby momma. I can charm you right out of your clothes, my singing's so pleasing." He tips his fedora off his head, puts it down on hers, and then his hand drifts down to graze the back of her neck, drawing her close. "I can make you do a lot of things, baby girl."

"Yeah, good luck with that. You couldn't sing me into walking to my death and you can't sing me into believing that you have a good voice."

White teeth flash in a semblance of a grin that looks more like an angry Dyson in wolf form. "You might want to watch yourself or else I'll take that as a challenge."

Suddenly, her amusement flees. She leans towards him, bottom lip catching between her teeth as her eyes drift shyly over his face. Hale moves in as slowly as she does, eyes falling to half mast as the hand on the nape of her neck massages gently.

They're not even centimeters apart when Kenzi whispers breathily, "Do you really think you can win a challenge against me?"

Hale dips back against the couch and groans as Kenzi draws her knees up onto the cushions and crouches over him. "Who can charm who out of their clothes now?" She sticks her tongue out playfully at him and he chuckles.

She's a pretty fly girl and he doesn't have it in him to stay angry at her. Hell, he can't even find it in himself to get angry at her.

"Well, it's a good thing I believe turnaround is fair play," he says to save himself. "If I can charm you, you might as well be able to charm me, know what I'm saying?"

"Oh, yeah, I know what you're saying. You're saying you're a sore loser!" She does a small dance, enough to make Hale laugh as she chants, "you're a sore loser, you're a sore loser, you're a sore los – GAH! Hands off the merchandise, buddy!"

"It's a fine product," he admits softly and continues to run his hands up her sides. She wriggles in his grasp and his Dyson-wolf-worthy grin returns with a hint of smugness as he pets his thumbs across her ribs. "Hey, baby momma, are you ticklish here?"

"N-no."

"I don't know, you look pretty ticklish to me."

"Yeah, well, looking and feeling are two entirely different – GAH! No, no, NO!" But she dissolves into laughter and giggles as he finds a particular spot to torture. She struggles as if she thinks she can get away and only manages to collapse backward, him following after her, and she's practically in tears as she presses herself flat to the couch with him looming over her.

"S-s-stop!"

But he doesn't because she's beautiful with her face flushed, gasping for air when she can, and she looks actually happy.

And then her hands slide underneath his sweater and her nails drag over his abdomen up to his chest.

He suddenly doesn't want to tickle her anymore. "And what are you doing, sugar baby?"

Her eyes are wicked as she withdraws one arm to wrap around his shoulders and lure him down against her, and the irony is killer, like a siren drawing her victims to the rocks. He knows she's dangerous but he's willing to risk it and let her have her way with him.

"You said it first," she murmurs against his lips, his fedora tipped low over her forehead. "Turnaround is fair play." And she kisses him. Hard.

All in all, it's a pretty fly night.