If getting her way's a routine, this would be the point where she'd even out into a cocky, congratulatory sort of grin designed to function like a pat on the back: something to encourage the subjugated party to continue playing into her hands.

But this isn't like pulling a few thousand pounds free of a stuck up bastard's palm, or borrowing a brand new imprezza from the garage of a professional driver. Chloe's lips stay (aside from the barest little tug at the corners) set in a straight line when she hunkers down again in the sharp rustling of the covers, tucking herself in against his shoulder. "I might know a few with the right skills for the job."

It's a dull statement. No bite or humor to it. The quietest way she can think of to mark the first time someone's truly had her back.