He fucked up. He can't even recall what he said, even if he said it moments ago. He doesn't need to, he can tell by the look in your eye that it was truly heinous. He feels it in his gut, something akin to fear but more like anxiety.
You don't curse or rant, you barely make a sound. Finality sets in your jaw, you just take a good hard look at the man Infront of you before walking away. A deafening silence remains in your absence, a declaration of cold war. The store's temperature dips, air frigid, the whir of the fridges sounding more like a held breath.
Lane stays fixed to the spot, watching you retreat behind the counters. He can't tell if your eyes were wet or were they glazed over in disdain. You're no longer looking at him but the residual heat of your stare lingers on his skin. Quite frankly, it sends a shiver down his spine. Is this what you meant when you mentioned catching you on a bad night? Or was his flagrant choice of words so horrendous, he inspired this all by himself.
Fuck, he thinks. He can already tell that the hole he's in is too big. If it wasn't, he would hopped out of it by now with a stupid joke or an even crasser jab. Instead, he's paralyzed by his own inability comprehend how to turn the tide. He could play dumb and dumber or he could skulk away to the storeroom and hope this passes. He should do the later but his feet won't move. He remains rooted in the same spot you left him, shame crawling up from the depths of his blacken heart. He hates that you can make feel this way and hates himself even more for allowing it.
Beyond that, he's scared, genuinely scared that this not so minor offense could linger beyond the today's shift. Terrified that it might still be here tomorrow and the day after.
You'll get over it, his tries to rationalise, women always do. Women, such volatile creatures, always betraying themselves. They say one thing but almost always mean a completely different thing. Even when silent, they're so damn loud with their expectation. His ego prickles, a firm rebellion urging him to dig his hole deeper.
He could say something needlessly malicious, maybe ask if it's that time of the month, throw in a few quips about needing to get laid. He'd offer his service out of the kindness of his heart and with the smugness of a bastard. Would that work, would you find that funny? You did say you liked his sense of humor.
Or he could he could kiss your cheek, stroke your hair. You would smack him, maybe even land a punch and he would deserve it. He'd take it like a champ, throw in a line about how hot you are when you're mad or demand you kiss it better. You wouldn't but you'd feel bad enough to relent this torture.
And if all else failed? He could apologise like you so desperately want him to. He could concede, swallow his fickle pride and cave to your silent demand. You probably don't even know you want it, likely fuming on the other side of the register, thinking he's scum. Which he is but Lane knows, the minute he breaks character to offer a simple apology, you'll forgive him immediately. You'll grab onto the sentiment like a dog with a bone, even if you don't believe it. It doesn't matter if he meant it, all that matters is that he bothered to try. Women love the great expanse of potential, the vast unknown promise of something more lying beneath the surface. Mix in some expectation of being the exception because he didn't just try, he tried for you and not just over text but in the flesh.
Women, such self serving hypocrites, only looking to stroke their own ego, vying to affirm their own agenda. They wanna be special so bad, it's pathetic. He shouldn't waste his time, or betray himself for such frivolous favour. They're not worth it but there you are, bathed in the harsh fluorescent light, presiding over the store like an angel bound to menial labour by the will of a jealous God. You're not just any women, you could be his women but the likelihood of that ever happening seems to be slipping away with every second he spends dawdling. Like water seeping through his fingers, you were escaping him, no matter how tight he held his fist.
His head hurts or was that his chest. Lane runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots.
"Fuck," he cusses under his breath, his feet finally booting into action.
Lane approaches the counter with the grace of wounded feline, brazen but cautious. He eyes you with faux confidence, testing the waters but you don't react. It's not that you're avoiding him but rather, you're looking right past him.
Harsh, he grimaces. Well, he's done enough thinking. He's laid out all the options but where's the fun in that. If he's gonna cave to the whim of a women, he needs his reward to be guaranteed and an apology is only 50%. Good thing he already has another way to compensate for the remainder 50.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, the words alone feel so foreign on his tongue. It almost taste as bad as it sounds.
You still for the briefest second but he picks up on it. Your expression however, remains fixed. Not the best response but you're obviously taken by surprise and who could blame you.
Lane's age old smugness rise above the anxiety, it gives him the courage to saunter into the storeroom. Inside, he does a little stretch, shaking off the nerves like an actor just about to step out on stage. He slicks back his hair, eases into the kick puppy look and returns to the front with the mop and bucket.
You ignore him as he expected you to.
He doesn't say anything, just drags his feet all the way to the foreboding red puddle in the middle of the isle. The crime scene taunts him, he hears some distant voice call him a pussy.
Fighting the urge to self sabotage, he begins mopping up the mess. He does so slowly and dramatically, a pout pulling at his lips. He's putting on a real award winning show.
"and et voila," he presents the damp but almost clean floors like a court jester concluding his act.
There's still a pink hue clinging to the tiles but he tried his best and that's all that matters (to you).
You don't stir, your hands remain folded on the counter. The whir of the fridge is louder, life slowly seeping into the heart of the store. Lane rests his chin upon the mop handle, hands sandwiched between. He's staring right at you, watching, waiting for the inevitable.
You can feel his gaze, knows that he has you right where he wants you. How you wish you were above falling for his dumb charm but something warm blooms in your chest. He had apologised, something you weren't even sure he knew how to do. You bite your tongue, steel your resolve, you won't give him the satisfaction but he's presence is like a black hole. He's sucking you, your gaze flicker his way on pure instinct. Look you did, just for a moment and regretted it almost immediately.
Lane smiles, all teeth and then some. He's so pleased with himself, he's oozing vanity. Sacrifices are necessary in war but he knows he's won more than he's lost.
Victory in hand, he can finally get back to doing what he does best; Nothing. He's just about slip into the storeroom when you lay down your weapons.
"Do you even know what you were apologising for?" You ask pointlessly, you don't really care for the answer. You just wanna have your say in this whole silent exchange.
Lane smirks, "Don't push your luck, Princess. Just be grateful I apologised at all."
From this angle, he catches the tiniest curl at the corner of your mouth. All is forgiven and things are back to normal-ish. You're nowhere closer to being his but you're exactly where he left you yesterday and that's all he can ask for.
"Lucky me," you coo sarcastically.
Lucky you indeed, he agrees begrudgingly.
Returning to the store, Lane takes up his usual post. Women, he thinks as he doom scrolls, such simple creatures.
Excuse the errors. I wanted to write something exploring Lane's diabolical thought process and his habit of over thinking.
Important to note, in the fic, he wants you to be his women the same way he wants to win the lotto. He plays down the sincerity because of course he wants you, any man would and he's just a man. Not because he caught feelings for you. He's in semi denial, choosing not to see through his own bs. Yes, his stance on women flip flops, from volatile hypocrites to simpletons. It doesn't matter because he will use whatever excuse is more convenient and serves him best.
jbbartram-illu
dededos
tangentwithtanner
germansingergirl
areudirty
jacobvanloon
2087
