[ There are a whole host of reasons he thinks she'd make a not-bad (the word he's looking for is good) girlfriend, enough to fill out a whole laundry list, but he never gets the chance to list off even one of them, her simple pronouncement enough to wipe every last thought from his mind.
He almost drops her, his body straightening in an automatic fight-or-flight response, and it's only at the last second that he leans forward again as the loosening of her arms sends another burst of panic through him.
He wants to sew her mouth shut to stop her from saying anything even more incriminating. He wants to pretend like she's said nothing at all and shift the conversation to something far less dangerous, like the weather (shitty) or which of their too-many dogs ought to be put on a diet (Skull). He wants to turn around and take her face between his hands and kiss her until they're both out of breath, regardless of who might see them out here on the street.
But his hands are still very much occupied with locking the weight of her body in place as they head towards home and she is still very much drunk as hell.
The seconds blur together as he continues along the sidewalk, his silence loud and damning against the quiet backdrop of the city. No matter how much he tries, the words jam in his throat, anchored in place by an old fear that not even the warmth of her sentiment can dislodge.
The house eventually swings into view. It'd be easy enough to carry her all the way inside and drop her off in her room so she can sleep off the booze. Instead, he stops abruptly right before the front porch, giving her a small shake in case she's fallen asleep back there. ]
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He almost drops her, his body straightening in an automatic fight-or-flight response, and it's only at the last second that he leans forward again as the loosening of her arms sends another burst of panic through him.
He wants to sew her mouth shut to stop her from saying anything even more incriminating. He wants to pretend like she's said nothing at all and shift the conversation to something far less dangerous, like the weather (shitty) or which of their too-many dogs ought to be put on a diet (Skull). He wants to turn around and take her face between his hands and kiss her until they're both out of breath, regardless of who might see them out here on the street.
But his hands are still very much occupied with locking the weight of her body in place as they head towards home and she is still very much drunk as hell.
The seconds blur together as he continues along the sidewalk, his silence loud and damning against the quiet backdrop of the city. No matter how much he tries, the words jam in his throat, anchored in place by an old fear that not even the warmth of her sentiment can dislodge.
The house eventually swings into view. It'd be easy enough to carry her all the way inside and drop her off in her room so she can sleep off the booze. Instead, he stops abruptly right before the front porch, giving her a small shake in case she's fallen asleep back there. ]
Get off.