Theea
Doesn’t matter how I feel—my smile shows up the second Aria prances through the door like she owns the place, and I let her be. There’s nothing in here she can break, unless she somehow figures out how to ignite a pillow fort, and honestly? I’d probably thank her for sparing me the mountain of tissues.
I sniff, then frown at Damien, squaring my shoulders against the weight of his stare. “Maybe not normally,” I mutter, stubborn as a mule, “but I’ve been stirring up all kinds of dust with cleaning and rearranging. That’s all.”
Then he peels off his sweater to deposit on my table with a parcel, and my heart does a ridiculous little leap at the simple act, at his comfortable, modest exposure. It’s absurd, the way it hits me—silly and decidedly girlish—and I immediately busy myself scooping up my overflowing trash bucket. The tissues rustle accusingly as I march back into the kitchen to dump into the bigger bin, pretending I’m not watching him out of the corner of my eye. He sets the last log with such ease it looks like the fire just listens to him, and I don’t miss the quiet care in the act.
When he glances back, his eyes catch mine, sharp and steady, leaving no room to wriggle or fib. I do it anyway. “I really think I’m fine,” I insist, even as a shiver sneaks down my spine now that I’ve strayed from the fire. I huddle deeper into my sweater and drift closer to him and the stove.
“And how exactly was I supposed to tell you?” I add, tone tipping playful as I try to dodge his concern. “I’ve never been to your place. Don’t know where to send the letter.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and I know it, so I tack on with a crooked grin, “Besides… didn’t think you needed to be worrying yourself over me being… allergies.”
I sniff, then frown at Damien, squaring my shoulders against the weight of his stare. “Maybe not normally,” I mutter, stubborn as a mule, “but I’ve been stirring up all kinds of dust with cleaning and rearranging. That’s all.”
Then he peels off his sweater to deposit on my table with a parcel, and my heart does a ridiculous little leap at the simple act, at his comfortable, modest exposure. It’s absurd, the way it hits me—silly and decidedly girlish—and I immediately busy myself scooping up my overflowing trash bucket. The tissues rustle accusingly as I march back into the kitchen to dump into the bigger bin, pretending I’m not watching him out of the corner of my eye. He sets the last log with such ease it looks like the fire just listens to him, and I don’t miss the quiet care in the act.
When he glances back, his eyes catch mine, sharp and steady, leaving no room to wriggle or fib. I do it anyway. “I really think I’m fine,” I insist, even as a shiver sneaks down my spine now that I’ve strayed from the fire. I huddle deeper into my sweater and drift closer to him and the stove.
“And how exactly was I supposed to tell you?” I add, tone tipping playful as I try to dodge his concern. “I’ve never been to your place. Don’t know where to send the letter.” It’s a flimsy excuse, and I know it, so I tack on with a crooked grin, “Besides… didn’t think you needed to be worrying yourself over me being… allergies.”
delusional optimism is the only way out
