Luther's arm bumps her as he moves, and she lifts her cup to save the coffee.
Except he doesn't move back, and her brows wrinkles before she realizes that it was on purpose. He didn't bump into her accidentally, and her throat catches, her wrist shifting in unconscious instinct, just slightly, knocking the back of her hand, side of her wrist, against his jacketed forearm. Before laying still. The clench in her chest no less tight, but almost like there was suddenly an inch of space to breathe in with it.
Then the words that she expects. But. She isn't expecting Luther's second message at all. There's no smile, no laugh. But. There is a twitch at the edge of her mouth.
It feels a little like cheating. This. No one can tell they are talking. She's not even looking at him. She didn't even let herself look at the place where their arms are leaned against each other, though at some point her weight must have shifted just a little that way, too. Maybe all of it makes it easier, too. The solidness, and the silence, and secrecy.
(The idea that maybe he missed it. What she'd referred to.
The desperation barely tamped. Just a little more now, too. Because of him.)
Did Dad tell you when it used to happen? Did he even know? Even look. Keep tabs on any of them. Would he have even cared in the slightest if he did? They used to ask me about him. Them. Any of his OD's, rehab visits, jail time, charges, anything they stumbled on. The middle of interviews. On the red carpet. In the street. Wherever I appeared next. It didn't matter. The sleazeballs loved it.
no subject
Except he doesn't move back, and her brows wrinkles before she realizes that it was on purpose. He didn't bump into her accidentally, and her throat catches, her wrist shifting in unconscious instinct, just slightly, knocking the back of her hand, side of her wrist, against his jacketed forearm. Before laying still. The clench in her chest no less tight, but almost like there was suddenly an inch of space to breathe in with it.
Then the words that she expects. But. She isn't expecting Luther's second message at all.
There's no smile, no laugh. But. There is a twitch at the edge of her mouth.
It feels a little like cheating. This. No one can tell they are talking. She's not even looking at him. She didn't even let herself look at the place where their arms are leaned against each other, though at some point her weight must have shifted just a little that way, too. Maybe all of it makes it easier, too. The solidness, and the silence, and secrecy.
(The idea that maybe he missed it. What she'd referred to.
The desperation barely tamped. Just a little more now, too. Because of him.)
Did Dad tell you when it used to happen? Did he even know? Even look. Keep tabs on any of them. Would he have even cared in the slightest if he did? They used to ask me about him. Them. Any of his OD's, rehab visits, jail time, charges, anything they stumbled on. The middle of interviews. On the red carpet. In the street. Wherever I appeared next. It didn't matter. The sleazeballs loved it.