[ Oh. Oh, this is... more than she was expecting. There's a thrum to her hold on his hand, a thoughtless little jump to her pulse that she can't control; she lets go. As much as you want, as much as you're willing to give, they'd talked about it, and they meant it, sure, but it's different to see how soft it makes his expression, how attentive. He spends a lot of time in his own head — she does too, though not in the same way — and it reflects in his face, in his moods. The way it sometimes seems like he fades into the background, drifting through a room half-awake, or how much more present he is when he's upset, or when she is. He's here, now.
Her one hand stays at his jaw; the other brushes the loose bangs out of his eyes. Her throat is too dry for the playful teasing back — no passable, no well, I've hardly checked enough to tell, right? Cleverness is discarded quickly. ]
Yeah, [ is all she can manage instead, a little rasped, and it feels dangerous to sit this close and talk this quiet, and it feels like a mercy that she's still wearing gloves. Not much of one, though.
this is disgusting and i hate them
Her one hand stays at his jaw; the other brushes the loose bangs out of his eyes. Her throat is too dry for the playful teasing back — no passable, no well, I've hardly checked enough to tell, right? Cleverness is discarded quickly. ]
Yeah, [ is all she can manage instead, a little rasped, and it feels dangerous to sit this close and talk this quiet, and it feels like a mercy that she's still wearing gloves. Not much of one, though.
Her lips quirk. ]
Happy birthday, Jaime.
[ And, foolishly, she kisses him. ]