Kaisel
One foot in the ground
One foot in the grave
One foot in the grave
He finally settles on a wineglass and a measuring cup for water glasses when he can't find actual ones after checking every damn corner of the tiny kitchen that she's managed to pack to the gills. It's just as well she doesn't offer any help, like taking anything else from her right now might be too much. Whatever distance and clarity among all her pots and pans he's hoping to find is as elusive as her cups, but he stumbles across plenty of frustration. Mostly at himself, but that is muddled and she's mixed into it now too because she's so fucking stubborn sometimes.
As he's filling the cups with ice from Spice's frosted box she denies him again. He glances up at her from his inclined head, the stare a cutting one, though his lips quirk in a half smile. "I imagine it would go as well as this attempt." Which is to say, like utter shit. Another cube or two makes it in before her next words cause him to pause. This time he doesn't look at her, doesn't think he can bear it if her face matches her words. He can guess she means it as a jest from her tone, but it lacks the usual dramatic flare—just enough truth layered in to sting.
He's hurt, a bit, and considers offering to leave then and there if she'd prefer for her day to get better. There's a moment where he contemplates throwing it back at her and telling her that she's the one who brought up the heartaches, and that her shitty mood is her own doing. Or that he had also been having an excellent day, up until the reminder of just how spectacular her chest is and how fucked up it is that he's even thinking that. Also, what the fuck does it matter if he says drive or pilot?
Instead, he sighs, and finishes filling the glasses with ice, and then water. "If you won't indulge me, then I'll just have to do it for you." He glances over at her with a tight smile, his humor flaking away where she's scorched him—leaving behind only bits of char and confusion. Not her words just now, those are just a breeze against the injury. It’s the lick of fire he still feels on his jaw, where her lips had lingered too softly, too long, in a place far too delicate for friendship. It's the burns on his chest where she tucked in too perfectly, felt too right in his arms. It's everything she is, but can't be, that prickles too fresh in his mind to move past completely just yet and attempt to keep pretending never was there at all. Fuck, he should have poured shots.
He delivers her wineglass of water and sits across from her with his measuring cup. He stares intently at her for a moment, looking nothing more than faux-serious for this exercise she wants no part of, when truthfully he's trying to bury the thought of what else is under that cotton shirt slipping free of her shoulder. He wants to make sure he doesn't say one of those thoughts.
"You light up the room every time you enter one," he begins, sipping slowly from the ice-cold drink.
As he's filling the cups with ice from Spice's frosted box she denies him again. He glances up at her from his inclined head, the stare a cutting one, though his lips quirk in a half smile. "I imagine it would go as well as this attempt." Which is to say, like utter shit. Another cube or two makes it in before her next words cause him to pause. This time he doesn't look at her, doesn't think he can bear it if her face matches her words. He can guess she means it as a jest from her tone, but it lacks the usual dramatic flare—just enough truth layered in to sting.
He's hurt, a bit, and considers offering to leave then and there if she'd prefer for her day to get better. There's a moment where he contemplates throwing it back at her and telling her that she's the one who brought up the heartaches, and that her shitty mood is her own doing. Or that he had also been having an excellent day, up until the reminder of just how spectacular her chest is and how fucked up it is that he's even thinking that. Also, what the fuck does it matter if he says drive or pilot?
Instead, he sighs, and finishes filling the glasses with ice, and then water. "If you won't indulge me, then I'll just have to do it for you." He glances over at her with a tight smile, his humor flaking away where she's scorched him—leaving behind only bits of char and confusion. Not her words just now, those are just a breeze against the injury. It’s the lick of fire he still feels on his jaw, where her lips had lingered too softly, too long, in a place far too delicate for friendship. It's the burns on his chest where she tucked in too perfectly, felt too right in his arms. It's everything she is, but can't be, that prickles too fresh in his mind to move past completely just yet and attempt to keep pretending never was there at all. Fuck, he should have poured shots.
He delivers her wineglass of water and sits across from her with his measuring cup. He stares intently at her for a moment, looking nothing more than faux-serious for this exercise she wants no part of, when truthfully he's trying to bury the thought of what else is under that cotton shirt slipping free of her shoulder. He wants to make sure he doesn't say one of those thoughts.
"You light up the room every time you enter one," he begins, sipping slowly from the ice-cold drink.
It's not the devil at your door
It's just your shadow on the floor
It's just your shadow on the floor
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
