#scarificed

     “ oak. ”  her tone holds an almost IMPATIENT edge  ( as though this is a question that has been sat on the flat of her tongue for weeks now, which, truthfully, it has )  and her hands have folded atop their booth’s table, posture all business, gaze fixed steadily on his wandering eyes.  “ why aren’t we having sex? ”

               lips purse and brows furrow at the off - handed comment,  and if she weren’t so shaken up,  she probably would’ve let a grin slide.   it’s her kind of humor, but her heart’s still racing a mile a minute ;  the sense  ( or lack thereof )  of what she’d done,  what she’d tried to do,  hit her in a way it never had before:  her recklessness almost cost her life.   it was never a solid reality, only a passing thought.   when his voice softens with genuine concern, she’s too scared and prideful to admit that she understands why.     ❛  what do you care ?  ❜     quick, harsh ;  she’s backpedaling  FAST  from that vulnerability from moments ago.

fake news daisy has never told pogie a joke

     he’s caught her in the act, sleeves wiping furiously at teary cheeks and a sniffling nose before she wheels around to face him with a smile that daisy seems to think will mask the moisture still clinging to her lashes and that telling flush that lingers on her skin.  “ how was work? ”