“Stop it.” She snaps irately, brows furrowing together as she pulled her bag’s zipper close.

“Stop what?” he asks, though he very well knows what she means. After all, only three things in this world annoy her enough for her to demand that they stop – the self-righteous rants and raves of that Paul guy from her PI 100 class, guy (meaning porn) talk, and foot tapping. (The last partly because a perverted orgmate once told her that foot tapping is a form of masturbation.)

“Tapping your foot. It’s annoying.” (See, he was right.)

He shrugs. “I’m bored.”

“That’s not my problem.” She retorts.

“Have any entertainment ideas?” he asks, determined to annoy her since he had begun to do so without meaning to and was really bored, anyway.

“Do I look like a TV to you?” came the answer, voice laced with annoyance.

“You don’t have to be bitchy.” He shoots back, feigning an offended expression.

“I am not bitchy.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’re acting imbecilic.”

“You didn’t just say that.”

“Oh, but I did. And – ”

Thud. An “Ow!” follows as he knocks her back against the wall, hard enough to bruise.

“What the –” she groans, but she suddenly shuts up because she realizes that he is suddenly close. Too close.

“Told you you just didn’t say that.” He says conceitedly, lips curling into a grin as he slowly draws his face closer to hers.

She swallows weakly, throat as dry as her chapped lips, while wondering where the hell all her bitchiness went to. Out of her mouth and into his ego, apparently. This is one of his games, the brat is keeping himself amused again. He may have caught her off guard, but she’s not one to give control up easily, sorry.

She smirks as she looks at him straight in the eye. Two can play this game and she is calling his bluff.

His grin widens when he sees her smirk, and he continues to close the distance between their faces. Boy, isn’t this better than bantering? He can feel the warmth of her heavy breath as the few inches that keep them apart shrink to centimeters –

“Yeah here we go for the hundredth time, hand grenade pins in every line. Throw em up and let something shine, goin’ out of my fucking mind...”

Linkin Park’s Bleed It Out suddenly fills the air as something vibrates on the table nearby. Incoming call alert.

She looks down at her ringing phone on the table. The caller does not appear to be registered in her contacts and she can only see its first few digits (0-9-1-7-8-8-1… is that next number a 7?) but she recognizes it anyway. It must be another one of her perverted former orgmates.

She turns her eyes on him again, and her skin almost tingles as she feels his breath on her nose.

“Aren’t you… gonna to take that?” he drawls haughtily, pulling back so she could have a bit more space to move through in case she did take the call.

She lets out a soundless breath of relief for the newfound space and then bites her lip down as she thinks. The phone continues to ring, but she ignores it and just keeps staring at him, wanting oh-so desperately to wipe that grin off his face. If it is indeed her former orgmate, he’s just going to ask if she wants to meet up for coffee. She’d just call her former orgmate tomorrow and make up some story about why she didn’t answer.

She smirks at him again. “That guy’s gonna ask if I want to go to Starbucks, but I’m really in the mood for an almond mocha right now.”

Because this afternoon, she’s craving for the taste of second-hand Listerine.