she wasn't seeking him out. seeking him out meant that she CARED and the last thing maryse mizanin would admit about phil brooks was that she cared in even the S L I G H T E S T. but her body betrayed her brain. while her mind willed her not to admit it, her eyes glanced around each room, sought him out around each bend in the hall. it felt his absence more than she wanted to admit because whether she'd say it or not, he'd become a fixture.
it wasn't anything out of fondness or disdain; punk had simply become a constant. each time she found herself up to her eyeballs in mike's complaining about this company and his ' lost opportunities ', she found him -- as if she gave off some high pitched signal only he could hear, like a dog.
a mangy mutt that she wouldn't call for even if it brought some comfort to have him near.
and like most dogs, he found his way back home -- though when she started considering herself punk's HOME she didn't know. but there he was, his gaze meeting hers as she rounded some tucked off corner as though he was EXPECTING her.
❝ if you utter the words, kurt angle or pre-show to me i may ‘ave to kill you -- or i’ll just kill you anyway, ❞ she stated as she slowly bridged the distance between them. all she had heard tonight had been her husband's ranting and raving about the horror of his match being on the pre-show and not even for his title. when she came to rest, her back was against the wall punk leaned on, her shoulder just barely brushing his. ❝ je ne peux pas le supporter -- my ‘ead aches. ❞