“Waiting for your girlfriend?” He rubs his nose with the back of his hand.
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Good,” he says immediately, grin spreading. “Hate stepping on toes.”
“You’ve never had that concern before,” I reply, glancing out across the quad.
He lets out a short laugh, like he appreciates the acknowledgment more than the insult. “Depends whose toes they are.”
“Toes end up broken,” I say mildly.
That earns me a sideways look.
“She talks to you?” he goes on, tone slipping back to that lazy, probing edge. “Or does she just follow you around like a stray?”
It’s almost funny, how wrong he is.
“She manages,” I say.
“Yeah?” His grin sharpens. “She’s got that soft look,” he goes on, like he’s describing a car he’s thinking about stealing. “I bet she’d cry if you pushed her right.”
I picture breaking his fingers.
Not all at once. That’s inefficient. One at a time, slowly enough that he understands exactly which one is next before it happens. There’s a method to it if you do it right. A sequence.
He lets out a quiet breath, almost wistful. “That hair…” His mouth curves. “I like to think about it wrapped around my fist while I fuck her face.”
How long it would take to drag him behind the maintenance building? Thirty seconds, maybe less if he doesn’t see it coming. Longer to clean up, though. Too many variables. Possible interruptions. Not worth it.
I turn to face him, and his smile widens. He’s been waiting for it. My attention.
“If you’re trying to impress me,” I say, my voice flat, “you’re doing a terrible job.”
He huffs a laugh. “Oh, I’m not trying to impress you.”
“Then this is how you are? No excuses?” I ask.
His grin sours, then hardens. He doubles down. “She tastes like she looks? Sweet? Or do you not know?” he presses. “Since she’s not your girlfriend and all.”
I shove off the wall and he follows, straightening. He moves closer, eager, body readying, hands curling, grin already turning victorious.
He thinks he’s won. That I’ll retaliate.
I almost do.
Instead, I adjust my sleeve, smoothing fabric that wasn’t wrinkled.
“You talk a lot,” I tell him.
“Someone has to,” he says, shrugging. “You’re quiet today.”
I look at him fully now, not the way he wants. No reaction. No heat. Just angles. Weight distribution. Weak points. The small, unconscious tells he doesn’t know he gives. The ones I read without trying.
“I’m thinking,” I say.
“About what?”
“Planning ahead.” I smile.
