it’s not awkward. they still like to talk about books and, on occasion, dean will still listen to rose if she has anything to say. he’s happy to listen, and surprisingly so; any story that she’s lived through is better than the hell he has to live in. and he swears it by his mother’s womb -- because he isn’t all that religious, go figure -- that he isn’t feigning interest at all.
she’s an entire anthology, first edition even though she’s a legacy of something bigger, with a soul that’s not meant to be skimmed through.
but there is something different. good-different. the kind that makes him want to hold her hand when they’re walking to the nearby shops, which seem awfully close no matter how much he wishes for them to be a little bit farther. maybe then, rose will complain about having sore feet, and he’ll have an excuse to carry her.
his knuckles, for now, are content with brushing against hers instead of slamming into some asshole’s face somewhere across the world ( the only few days off he’ll ask for in the next few months ), and it’s almost worth it. but he’s become greedy, so he breaks the silence: “so you’re -- you’re enjoying it here?”
he runs his fingers through his hair, impatient with himself. it’s too public; but there are things that can be avoided if he stays away from the private. “you should come talk to me sometime when i do those surfing lessons. i mean -- i see you around, so... it wouldn’t be weird, right?”
