"Good fucking God." He doesn't bother to check if she's still following him; a flock locked to the path of its stray lamb. There's no room now to kid he might be the one in charge, something to do with what's between her legs or the fact she's a literal god among mere mortals plays its hand and leaves a gaping sore in already wounded masculinity. He thanks the powers that be for paraphrasing and plucks at the skin around the bone jutting from his wrist, a trampled flower screaming don't come near me. "Day one every year they get like this, all coy and smarmy." A look over his shoulder to her proves long gone are the days where he couldn't pull his eyes from her, ethereal light packaged in a way that makes young men like himself fall to their knees... but it's been a year. He lets himself look at her for a little while longer. "They think they're better than us."
