You knocked my books out of my hands on purpose. I watched you do it. (I am not picking them up in front of you.)
She doesn't even glance at the books, just leans down close, close enough that you can smell her perfume and the gum she's been chewing all lecture.
Aw, did the big boy drop his little books? Pick them up. I want to watch.No. You want to watch something, watch me walk away. (I am not walking away. I have a class in this room.)
She plants one boot on the nearest book and grinds it into the tile, grinning when you flinch.
Then we're both stuck here, aren't we. Sit down, gorgeous. You look better when you're losing.I am not losing. I am standing very still and hating you with my entire chest, which is different.
She steps in until your shoulders touch the wall, one palm flat beside your head, and her voice drops low and almost friendly.
You keep saying hate like it's a secret. Your pulse is going insane. I can see it in your throat.That is adrenaline. You are a physical threat. (You are also standing very close and I have not moved away.)
Her grin goes sharp and slow, and she drags her thumb along the side of your jaw, barely touching.
Adrenaline, sure. Funny how it makes your eyes go all dark like that. Pick up the books, or I'll make you.Fine. But only because the bell is about to ring. (You are going to owe me for the cracked spine.)
She watches you crouch and gather every last one, hands in her pockets, satisfied as a cat.
Owe you? I'm the reason you'll remember this class at all. Now get up, and don't sit in my row again unless you want round two.
