"When you say you need to get water, no, I don't."
Tossed at his head, as she follows to the door, arms up, tying her hair into a heavy ponytail that bounces against the back of her neck and brushes the top of her shoulders. It might be time to go short again, especially if she's going to be spending any amount of time in this heat, but right now she kind of likes the way it feels, silky and heavy and with a fun sort of flip to it when she moves.
Like now, as she makes her way to the door, hands on her hips, and takes a second to lean into his space, head tipped back in a dare or a challenge or just an attitude of go ahead, impress me. Smile tripping her up, teasing at her lips and eyes, smug and expectant and it's just damn good to see him, no matter what the circumstance. He smells good, up close, and she considers pushing up on her toes to kiss him, but leaves it, for now, though she's close enough to brush his chest.
"It could be worse. I could be catering to sailors."
Not that they don't try, the boys on the boat. And not that she hasn't, occasionally, taken part in some mutual catering of a distinctly unprofessional sort. But Steve's teasing is just that, good-natured ribbing that she's gotten every day she's known him and all the boys like him, running off to join the Navy, serving the country, a mix of bold and brash and crass and gentlemanly that she sometimes despairs of and sometimes adores and always watches with varying degrees of exasperated affection. It's who she is, too, and keeping up with the boys is as much a part of her job description as anything else.
Keeping up with, beating -- it's academic, really.
"At least I'm a whiz at Battleship."
All amusement, before she tips her head and tugs at his loose shirt, stepping out into the sun. "Are you going to keep interrupting out there, too? Is this some kind of pitiful attempt to distract me so you'll get a head start?"
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-01-22 03:05 pm (UTC)Tossed at his head, as she follows to the door, arms up, tying her hair into a heavy ponytail that bounces against the back of her neck and brushes the top of her shoulders. It might be time to go short again, especially if she's going to be spending any amount of time in this heat, but right now she kind of likes the way it feels, silky and heavy and with a fun sort of flip to it when she moves.
Like now, as she makes her way to the door, hands on her hips, and takes a second to lean into his space, head tipped back in a dare or a challenge or just an attitude of go ahead, impress me. Smile tripping her up, teasing at her lips and eyes, smug and expectant and it's just damn good to see him, no matter what the circumstance. He smells good, up close, and she considers pushing up on her toes to kiss him, but leaves it, for now, though she's close enough to brush his chest.
"It could be worse. I could be catering to sailors."
Not that they don't try, the boys on the boat. And not that she hasn't, occasionally, taken part in some mutual catering of a distinctly unprofessional sort. But Steve's teasing is just that, good-natured ribbing that she's gotten every day she's known him and all the boys like him, running off to join the Navy, serving the country, a mix of bold and brash and crass and gentlemanly that she sometimes despairs of and sometimes adores and always watches with varying degrees of exasperated affection. It's who she is, too, and keeping up with the boys is as much a part of her job description as anything else.
Keeping up with, beating -- it's academic, really.
"At least I'm a whiz at Battleship."
All amusement, before she tips her head and tugs at his loose shirt, stepping out into the sun. "Are you going to keep interrupting out there, too? Is this some kind of pitiful attempt to distract me so you'll get a head start?"