[Dammit, here she is all ready to be cool and slick and brilliant and competent, and one offhand kiss to the cheek later, she's a flustered disaster all over again. So much for being smug! She can't even do anything along the lines of retaliation, not with one hand occupied by the coffee cup and the other keeping track of the bakery bag.
But the good thing is, at least she's gradually getting used to the idea that this sort of casual interest and easy affection is just part of being around Prompto, and that means she in turn is slowly warming up to it herself. It doesn't startle her anymore, which is progress; it also doesn't leave her frantically questioning his motives, which is equally beneficial. She knows why he did it — he did it because that's just who he is and how he acts. That just leaves the usual bashfulness that follows his romanticism, and she's...not entirely sure that's even something she wants to surrender to acclimation, anyway. She sort of likes the fluster, in an odd way.]
The coffee is for you. [Now, here, a flicker of the smugness returns, in the form of a faint gleam in her eyes.] I drank part of it by mistake, but it's the way you like it.
[The bakery bag, when she hands it over, is a little weightier, and more decadent. Tucked away inside a plastic box are a half-dozen profiteroles, glazed with chocolate and chosen probably for the sheer visual aesthetic, courtesy of someone who hasn't had reason or ability to treat herself to French pastries in a very long time.]
Is...it all right, if I stay awhile? Elaborating might take some time, and I know it's late.
no subject
[Dammit, here she is all ready to be cool and slick and brilliant and competent, and one offhand kiss to the cheek later, she's a flustered disaster all over again. So much for being smug! She can't even do anything along the lines of retaliation, not with one hand occupied by the coffee cup and the other keeping track of the bakery bag.
But the good thing is, at least she's gradually getting used to the idea that this sort of casual interest and easy affection is just part of being around Prompto, and that means she in turn is slowly warming up to it herself. It doesn't startle her anymore, which is progress; it also doesn't leave her frantically questioning his motives, which is equally beneficial. She knows why he did it — he did it because that's just who he is and how he acts. That just leaves the usual bashfulness that follows his romanticism, and she's...not entirely sure that's even something she wants to surrender to acclimation, anyway. She sort of likes the fluster, in an odd way.]
The coffee is for you. [Now, here, a flicker of the smugness returns, in the form of a faint gleam in her eyes.] I drank part of it by mistake, but it's the way you like it.
[The bakery bag, when she hands it over, is a little weightier, and more decadent. Tucked away inside a plastic box are a half-dozen profiteroles, glazed with chocolate and chosen probably for the sheer visual aesthetic, courtesy of someone who hasn't had reason or ability to treat herself to French pastries in a very long time.]
Is...it all right, if I stay awhile? Elaborating might take some time, and I know it's late.