My pulse kicks hard.
She licks her lower lip, still looking straight at me.
I can’t look away.
I don’t even blink.
My throat goes dry.
She tilts her head, studying me with that same soft, infuriating amusement.
“What?” she asks innocently.
My voice comes out rough. “Nothing.”
She raises a brow.
“You look like you forgot how to speak.”
“I didn’t.”
She takes another sip.
My control is hanging by a thread now.
She lowers the bottle again, her fingers sliding down the condensation, collecting moisture. She rubs her thumb and forefinger together absentmindedly, like she’s testing the texture.
“You’re staring,” she says quietly.
“I’m not.” I sound like a sulking teenager, and I hate it.
She watches me for another second, like she’s deciding whether to call me out.
Then she lets it go.
“How was practice?” she asks, casual, like she’s asked me that question her entire life.
“Fine.”
She raises a brow. “Fine or fine?”
I drop my bag near the wall. “Fine.”
She hums skeptically.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says.
I scoff. “I’m not lying.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I’m not brooding.”
“You brood constantly.”
“I do not brood constantly.”
She smiles, pleased with herself.
