Catching movement in the corner of her vision, she sneaked a series of discreet glances in his direction from beneath demurely lowered lashes, quietly anxious to know what he thought of it. Though a notorious people-pleaser to begin with, often at the cost of her own well-being or comfort, Mary was quickly finding she craved his praise especially– an entirely selfish, self-indulgent need, she felt, as he didn’t make her uncomfortable at all.
Unnerved, yes. Uncertain, most definitely– but not uncomfortable. Not unsafe.
She watched his hands intently as they wound about the mug, struck by how lovely they were in the absence of gloves, in spite of being work-worn. She was possessed again by the intense desire to hold them, to feel his long fingers intertwine with hers– and moved her eyes shamefully away just in time to miss his own.
The want to be touched by someone was a new and frightening thing for her, and she naively couldn’t help but to find it somehow… indecent.
She gave a subtle little nod in response to his question, pleased despite her abashment that he could tell. It was quite a simple recipe, really: cow’s milk, cane sugar, cocoa powder, a cap-full of vanilla extract, and cinnamon to taste. She could even share it with him, if he wanted…
Mary suddenly shot to her feet with a cry of recollection, dashing wordlessly to the kitchen with far more hurry than was warranted. She needed to get the water heating– the wakame ought to be ready for them, by now!
After a deep, satisfied exhale and a careful blow against the hot surface of the cocoa, he took a tentative sip, savoring the warmth and sweetness on the tip of his tongue. Hot cocoa was a special drink, even if it was just some powder, stale little marshmallows, and microwaved water. It soothed him nonetheless, warmed him from the inside out and helped him relax his tensed shoulders and stiff jaw. But this was something entirely different.
Vaughn had never really had homemade hot cocoa before. Instant hot cocoa was much easier, simpler, but still good. But in this, the flavors were not only stronger, but just better. Even that small first taste was enough to make him feel warmer and less tightly wound.
But obviously it was nothing gourmet. It probably wasn’t the best thing he’d ever drink or anything, What made it so special was the thought, as little as it was, to bring something for him. It had been a few years now, ever since he’d moved out from his aunt’s place, that he’d eaten something he hadn’t put his own two hands into making (aside from the rare fast food outing he’d made in Leuda). Of course, this usually consisted of instant meals and other quick, cheap, lower quality foods, but he relied on himself to keep him fed. And that was fine, that was being an adult.
But now... he felt cared for. He felt warmed, from the inside out, and not just because of the drink.
He was thinking too much into this--but who cared? He felt happy. Mary wasn’t trying to make some grand gesture; she was just a good-hearted person. In the short time they’d known each other, that, he’d become sure of.
How he’d managed to actually get a visit from that good-hearted person? That, he was still trying to figure out.
Just as he’d opened his mouth to thank her--had he already thanked her? Oh well--Mary was suddenly jumping to her feet. “You okay?” he asked quickly, turning to watch after her and standing up to follow shortly after.
