Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it for you.
Honestly, she should really be used to this kind of thing by now.
It’s not like she doesn’t dish it out daily. Moreover, it’s not like it wasn’t characteristic of him. ..Him. Him. A monosyllabic word enough to make her immediately think of one person out of all those in the world, and not as a result of some romantic motive, or some baffling attachment of her heart, but rather of fascination. For some reason or another, the two had managed to “click,” to attempt to converse from the beginning on a similar sort of wavelength. That in itself would be cause for anyone to seek something more - God, that’s such a terrible phrase - to get closer? To become more than fri-.. No. There’s not really a way to explain whatever the attachment she feels is, or at least not one that she can rationally explain.
Really, this feeling she has is not typical. What he should be is another toy of hers - of course not in a completely malicious way - an object to ease her boredom. What he is, though, is far, far too close to her for comfort. However, she of typical iron will and self control, is beginning to lose the drive to continue to keep him away.
“Your hand looks heavy. Let me hold it for you.”
That’s evident, or so she thinks, in the way that no matter what sort of activity the two end up doing, or what location they wind up visiting, and no matter how many obnoxious, ridiculous, sleazy, completely without actual basis - sound like rationalization at all? - phrases that slip from the sly grin that so frequently dons his plush lips, her words remain hostile. She adores people, an extrovert entirely, and as a result, is cordial with all, save those she feels the closest to. Those people receive the insults. Of course, they’re not genuine. Of course, she’s an asshole. That was part of their dynamic.
She turns to him with perhaps the most (quite feigned) dramatic look of disgust she can muster, brows furrowed before her eyes roll, a customary, delicate shove to his side following. “Aren’t you supposed to be charming? Isn’t that part of the whole damn gimmick? I’m pretty sure a boy in middle school told me that gem once.”
However, this time was different from the rest. She didn’t keep her distance, and God only knows why. In fact, if anything, she’d managed to shift a bit closer, decreasing the already minimal space between them on one of the benches outside a coffeeshop. Her fingertips willingly intertwine with his, thumb gently caressing the back of his palm in what’s probably more than affectionate enough for them. But does she care? Not particularly. And her words probably aren’t entirely convincing, either.
“You’re lucky it’s dark. I’d rather be caught dead than seen with someone as.. blatantly unattractive as you.”
