no bullies or bums, the chums are tens here

// Got something inside, don't hide it, like dynamite ignitin' //

He doesn't know what she just said, but Ooohhh, burn Mateo seems fitting. It's also incredibly hot (hence, the burn). Something about the unfamiliar syllables strikes him like stone on flint. She's often fierce, and always worth watching, but this unknown edge to her—voice sharp, the music of it mangled but no less brilliant—it lights him up in a way he doesn’t stand a chance against. It's all he can do to keep the kiss that follows civil, never mind the horrible, awful idea of changing and all the assistance he'd need from her with that, which she tosses out like a sugar-coated threat to a man with a sweet tooth. He must've stepped away from her in a daze to be stupid enough to put the apron on now.

It's much easier for thoughts to drift when he's watching and listening to shrimp crisp in oil. After his contribution to what living in a possessed house is like, he find his gaze dipping towards her again and again. Every shift of her hair is a quiet kind of spell, the motion catching his breath the way sunlight does on glass. Each small tug that deepens the corners of her smile, a warmth he feels glowing beneath his ribs. That bright, electric shine at the edges of her eyes, a daring spark gathering like a storm about to break. Gods, she's incredible.

Fishing out the finished shrimp with a ladle and depositing them on a nearby towel to dry, he drops in a fresh handful. He tilts away, pretending to busy himself with some drawer or countertop so his back is to the dads who are terribly close for comfort, but alas he’s stuck at the frying post. He slips out the parchment and pen again, scrawls something hastily and surreptitiously, then tucks it away in his pocket with practiced mischief and returns his attention to the pot.

Kaisel

// Take the music, learn to use it, turn it up 'til your speakers blow fuses //