#mindsdistance

She only stopped by the place for their food and potential people watching. Like clockwork, she was the mercy of a sudden outburst from a strange man. He must be a foreigner if he was complaining about the state of her country. "That's not nice to say," she pouts. "Have you thought about not looking at the signs, mister?" willfully aloof and naïve, she's grown accustomed to the hundreds of bright, suggestive billboards.

Sophie's brows furrow as she pat-pats the surface, the side of her face bundled into his back. Her eyes widen as her hands immediately slip out from under his shirt. The heat rose to her face. She shakes her head, not needing to fixate on the feel. Amusement and apologies mixed together in her voice, "Sorry!" That mischievous smile had dropped already.

@mindsdistance sent: "--I really, truly love ice cream." Zero Escape, but theres no context.

Humility is a double-edged sword for Sophie. Never one to speak out of turn or condescendingly take credit for prolonged praise, the woman easily fades into the background. Then comes the imposed opposite, the circumstances that force attention on one who lacks it. Humiliation stings worse than unacknowledgement. A slight to her pride—or what little remains intact after all these years—and she bears the brunt.

Though she may not admit it out of sheer spite, this was her own doing. For someone who feels responsible for whenver something goes awry, the irony does not go unnoticed. Harbringer of disaster and its cleaner, that is Sophie Hatter.

With bags of conspicuous proof hanging from either hand, Sophie has very few choices left in the matter. Turning on her heel and foregoing any plans prior is unthinkable, especially for the man who does not care for his birthday. Because she cares—and stubborness be damned, but she may never relinquish. No matter the huffing, blushed shame, or discontent blemishing her face, obstinacy leaves no room to flee.

As Kazic knows, once she sets a course, the walking one-woman storm cannot be stopped.

Despite a growing list of questions and the flaws in her scheme, Sophie stands still, the flush ebbing from her cheeks. Yet, she already knows the answer. 'He can hear me within a ten-meter radius. You heard me before I even entered the property.'

Clearing her throat, the seamstress steps foot into the apartment, and turns around to close the door. Taking a tad longer, she sets up the locks, she grumbles inaudibly under her breath. 'You set me up!'

Finally, she turns to face Kazic and straightens herself. "Well, the door was open," she says, rolling her occupied wrist, expression neutral. Technically, that was a true statement.

The seamstress glances at the bags he comments on, giving him a half-lidded look, peeved. "Attempting to add an unauthorized occupant to the lease? Without the landlord's approval or notice? How criminal of you," she retorts.

Holding her gaze on Kazic, she accounts for the dampness clinging to the tips of his hair, with a towel slumped over his bare shoulders. He barely spent the time to properly dry himself; a stray droplet or two trails down his face. The stream continues past his jugular, down to his bare chest, dripping along his abdomen and shallow grooves, right down to—

'You'll catch a cold like that.' The copper-haired woman speeds past the seated Kazic, eyes honed to the kitchen. Reaching the counter, she places the bags down and begins pulling out the containers one by one, organizing them according to the "time of day" meal they represent.

"What have you been spending your day doing?" Sophie glimpses the barren state of the apartment. Undeniably, his preference for his birthday was solitude and self-reflection. With her involvement since their teenage years, those plans never come to fruition. In that sense, they are equals in foiling another's plan. That still does not lessen her bruised ego at this very moment.

Given what has been going on, Sophie taps the top of the white lid of a container. Where is--.... A mental shake causes the thought to dissipate before it fully forms.

Queries were invitations in a way.

Kazic hunched forward, a faint pink coloring his otherwise alabaster skin. A playful smile tugs on his face, yet something is amiss. Puckish intent would curve his lips into a cattish smile. His head then canted, his voice taking on a melodic ring, as if he were making a slight or a provocation. However, that was not the case. Teases were of his nature, but that was surface level. Something else lingers.

Her hands are still folded, posture poised, at the approaching challenge. He invades her space, and she remains. Sophie raises her chin, bracing herself. Unfortunately, what she invited was something—

“That is a poor business practice,” she says.

Strange.

She slowly blinks, figuring this through. This was all a part of the stunt. How could she not play along? What is this different from the farce hecarries himself with now? The “Kazic” of Midgard is but a stage performer; one would recognize another in the same field. At least, this she knows is part of the act, and he is making it blatantly clear that it is.

Send my character a ► and a command. They must obey. / accepting.

Falling to her own folly, Kazic turns the game on itself. Palm resting on the curve of her hip, she holds out the third request. Unlike those before, his presence is one that ensures she abides by the rules. The wording in itself is airtight, not escapable from her own precise phrasing. However, there was still one thing…

Without warning, you mirrored similar actions to how you'd react when she's overdress you for the winter, peeling each layer off and dropping it to the floor. Next you would collect the garments, gathering them into a pile held under your arm. Finally, you would adjust yourself accordingly, keeping the scarf with its neatly tied bow in place along with the beanie she has sewn you. The only difference from when you were a boy, was that you did not put any jacket on, feeling the hoodie she had crafted you was more than enough protection against the bitter chill of the start of winter.

"--...Sophie, its been nearly ten years, and you still act like I'm gonna die of hypothermia if I go outside. You know, it's not even as bas a Arkham or Yorkshire here. The winters're pretty tame from what everyone told me."

@mindsdistance

Guiding the zipper to the apex of the purple jacket, Sophie's nostrils flare with a satisfied exhale. From head to toe, from thermal pants, a scarf, a beanie, and three protective layers, mittens, and earmuffs to boots, her "client" was beyond prepared for the gloomy and gusty winds of Midgard. Every potential point of exposure was concealed entirely, leaving no margin for shivers or even frostbite to set in!

Marred palms rest in the divets of her hips, taking a big step behind to marvel at her work. Returning her content look was Kazic's perturbed stare, magenta eyes watching from behind the scarf that covered half of his face. His thin brows furrow together as her thick brows rise.

He was frostproof and fashionable, at that. His discontent was palpable to the woman, who had dealt with many tantrums and unpleasantness from her younger sisters. At least he was not compelled to start tugging hair, swiping hands, and tearing up clothes in the process.

Unlike Martha and Lettie, however, his provocations come silently. No warnings, no cues.

Like how his hand is already raising to the zipper right now--several minutes of work are undone in half a minute. One by one, the whole ensemble unceremoniously drop to the floor.

Sophie's lips tighten together with an unamused glower now in her eyes. "Really?" Her left arm slumps to her side.

Even with the saving grace that he redresses himself to his preference, it does little to quell her. Even with his explanation, which he may be half-right about, it does little to settle her.

To him, Sophie retorts with a raised palm, five fingers spread out. What this answers was speculation at this point. A correction or a threat, who knows?

"Do your powers also keep you warm besides letting you hear thoughts and see dreams and make things float?" She rolls her eyes, now with said hand resting on her hip. "My apologies, Kazic; I am not privy to that information." Caustic words come wrapped prettily with a bow on top.

Prague, Yorkshire, Arkham. All of those places before were colder than here; each before colder than the other, with the worst being his birthplace. Truth was that he had dealt with bitterer, freezing winters; though the grievances of having been holed up for most of it where he grew up was something she could easily harp on.

Winters are far more tolerable here than in the other places, but, oh, as if she'd give him that.

"Underdressing yourself is something you've been doing since we met." She clicks her tongue. Recent memory comes to his frequent shivers in the past autumn in the mechanic shop. Hence, he practically lived in that new jacket she made him for his birthday. "Not only that, you burn faster than most people if you do not cover up properly."

Sophie reasons that she does not need to explain this to the man whose skin reflects light.

The woman reaches out, plucking the gloves tucked under his arm. "This," she shows off the fruits of her labor, "will keep your hands warmer than your work gloves."