shota looks up from his papers when you heave what’s probably the most dramatic sigh he’s ever heard. he casts you an exasperated glance before asking a reluctant, “what?”
you look up at him through your lashes from where you’re sat on the other side of the couch, prodding him with your foot. “do you even like me?”
he holds his deadpan gaze for a second longer before returning to his work. “i’m not going to answer that.”
“what?!” you sit up, appalled and scowling. you crawl over to lean heavy on his shoulder, determined to interrupt his peace. “what the hell does that mean?!”
“there’s no good answer for that,” he replies, (mostly) unbothered to your pervasion of his personal space. “if i say yes, you’ll say something like ‘so you don’t love me’ and if i say no, you’ll have a fit. if i say ‘i love you’ you’ll say i didn’t answer your question. there’s no winning.”
you sit, dumbfounded. he’s got you there...
“yes, i like you. love you, even. no, i don’t want to break up. yes, i think about you every day and yes, i miss you when i’m away on missions. and no, i do not want anyone else. just you.”
he looks up and holds your gaze steady, the hint of a self-satisfied smirk tugging his lips at your wide eyes and flushed cheeks. you huff a little, bashful as you settle back onto him, placated by his answer (…for now).
several moments pass in soft silence until you open your mouth to say something else and shota drops his pen, heaving out a long-suffering sigh.
“and yes, i would still love you if you were a worm.”
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2087
