Magical Hogwarts

Friday 2 July 2004

The bell tinkered overhead as Charlie slipped into Honeydukes, then held the door open for the customer who was leaving at the same time. She didn’t give him a second look, and he didn’t notice — too busy peering over the shelves to spot Honey. She was at the counter, pressing buttons on the register with her head down. He smiled to himself and silently turned the sign on the door from open to closed, then skirted around to the far aisle quietly, planning to keep out of sight until he was already in front of her.

One hand was behind his back, concealing a hot pink wrapped package — it had taken him longer than he cared to admit to figure out what to get Honey for her birthday. He’d never really noticed her wearing jewellery—and that seemed too serious, one month into ‘officially’ dating, anyway—and he couldn’t ask her brother what to get her because he knew exactly how that conversation would go (Fergie was still using the ‘just moved’ excuse whenever their standing appointment for a pint came up). Couldn’t ask Grace, because he wasn’t sure Grace knew about them yet (she was about to get a rude awakening if she didn’t).
 
Charlie was wearing his usual black jeans and dark t-shirt, had foregone a jacket based on London temperatures and only thought he should have reconsidered upon arriving in a cooler, breezier Hogsmeade. Didn’t really matter though — they weren’t going to be outside.

“Got any cake?” he greeted his girlfriend (his girlfriend — it felt more real, giving her a semi-serious present), stepping out of the aisle with a smirk— then laughing when she jumped at his appearance. Twat, she called him; he grinned wider. “You finishing up or what?” he asked, his arm still unsubtly behind his back.

Honey’s shoulders slumped as she lowered her hand from the half-hearted wave she had offered the leaving witch, back to the parchment where she had been scratching away at some long addition. She carried the one, then punched a couple more buttons on the till, then looked back at her parchment when the numbers didn’t match. She wasn’t typically great at arithmetic, but she wasn’t typically this bad at it, either. She wadded up the parchment into a ball and pushed it off to the side, sighing as she pulled a clean piece toward her.

She was more focused on what she needed to tell @Grace Howard , that Charlie would be joining them for their birthday tonight. And that she had been dating Charlie for six weeks now, never mind the past year of sleeping with him, too. The window for telling her was getting smaller; Grace would be here in a couple hours, so Honey needed to send the owl to Inverness in the next ninety minutes, letting it get there before Grace left to come to Hogsmeade. And then Charlie would be here after that-- Honey had told him to get here after Grace, even though she wasn’t sure who might be more offended Honey hadn’t told her about him, yet.

Honey jumped, dropping her quill as she looked up at the sound of Charlie’s voice. Here. Now. For fuck’s sake. She reached for the wad of parchment and lobbed it at his head. “Twat.” She was thirty-one now; her heart couldn’t handle jump scares like it used to. (It had never been able to.) “Am nearly there,” she said, figuring if Charlie was here now, she was closing early.

And speaking of: “You’re early.” She said it with a smile--as the initial bad surprise wore off and the good surprise settled in--and a pointed look at his arm, his hand behind his back. She brought her gaze back up, meeting his eye as she came around the counter. “I don’t like closing early,” she said with a small smirk, the I don’t do it for just anyone well implied.

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The ball of parchment hit his forehead softly and fell back to the counter; Charlie let out a light laugh, not regretting the decision to surprise her.

You’re early. His face fell and he let out a dramatic sigh; “Well, it were bound to happen sometime,” he said, a broad smirk taking over his features before he could completely finish the sentence.

Honey’s eyes darted to the arm folded behind his back, then returned to his face. Charlie wet his lips as she came around the counter, turning on the spot to keep his front to her and the package shielded. She told him she didn’t like closing early and he didn’t bother trying to stifle his smile. “You can keep working if you want to," he offered, calling her bluff — they both knew she didn’t mind when it was for him (and he wasn’t totally inconsiderate, he hadn’t made a habit of it — yet).

“I'll just go wait upstairs with this," he continued playing along, bringing the bright pink parcel around in front of him to wave it about pointedly.

It worked: Honey grabbed for the present and Charlie grinned, not quite letting go until he added a disclaimer: “It’s… not that exciting,” he said, almost apologetically, but he wanted to set her expectations low before she was disappointed — not that he thought she would be, but— Well, there was a chance he’d miscalculated. In some ways materialistic people were easier to please — get them something shiny and expensive and it’d be reight. Honey was… not the opposite of materialistic, but he definitely didn’t think sparkly trinkets would impress her.

Warning delivered, Charlie loosened his grip to let her take the book, shoving his hands in his pockets to avoid fidgeting.

 Honey rolled her eyes instead of saying about that, not about to compliment him for what he was hinting at.

She could keep working if she wanted to– as if there was anything upstairs Charlie could entertain himself with–no television, nothing to read but old newspapers–if she wasn’t also upstairs. (Unless that present he finally stopped bothering trying to hide was on theme with his birthday present from last year; he could certainly entertain himself with that.)

But it was her birthday and she didn’t really want to keep working now or send him upstairs alone. She grabbed at the gift with a grin. She had woken up at Charlie’s (and spent a few waking hours there) so the thought that it might be something special–not a joke gift–crossed her mind, considering he had waited to give it to her. That, or he bought it since that morning; her birthday gift logic was flawed, at best. But she could feel the sharp edges and the weight of it, even as Charlie didn’t relinquish his grip on it. She was thinking through the possibilities of what it could be when he said it wasn’t that exciting; she rolled her eyes again.

He let go and she got a better feel for it and– oh, no, it felt like a book. She started unwrapping it without looking up, swallowing hard when she saw text on a glossy cover; it was definitely a book. Was he serious? She carried on not looking up; she knew her expression wasn’t what it should be, but to be fair, he really should have known better than to expect her to want to read anything. She finished unwrapping it, letting the paper fall to the floor of the shop, and turned the book over to look at it properly, buy herself a few more seconds before she needed to pretend to love it, in case he really was serious.

She didn’t get so far as thinking about what must have been the last time Charlie had bought a girlfriend a birthday gift, didn’t get so far as thinking about anything else, really, once she finally made sense of what she was looking at. Cookbooks–for baking, specifically–were the only acceptable books, and this was even a step up from that: The Gingerbread Kama Sutra. She flipped to a random page. “Dunno if I can sell these here,” she said with a smirk, finally looking up.
 

 Charlie watched Honey’s face, not without some anxiety about his choice of ‘present’; he’d opted for the humorous route (again), but there was, at least, a little more thought that had gone into this year (not that he hadn’t put thought in last year). He’d seen the myriad of cookbooks upstairs in her flat, had assumed they were hers and not her parents (surely they would have taken them to Spain with them when they moved?) but now he was second-guessing his assumption. Her expression (or lack thereof) wasn’t helping.  

Charlie smirked back, relieved. He looked around the shop, as if surveying the premises. “I dunno, think you could do an adult section.” He wet his lips and brought his attention back to her. “If you can sell blood pops for vampires you can do edible knickers or summat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

His eyes flicked to the page Honey had turned to, then back up to her face. He moved a little closer and reached around her waist, finding the tie of her Honeydukes branded apron and pulling it to release the bow. “As much as I wouldn’t say no to page sixty-two,” he lowered his voice and his gaze, avoiding hers, “I, erm, thought I’d come early so we could get dinner, if you wanted.” He wanted, but it wasn’t about him — it was her birthday, and even if it wasn’t he still felt a little unsure about his footing around Honey.

It was easy to think—briefly—that he hadn’t felt so uncertain about doing couple-y things in his previous relationship—Kate had almost always wanted whatever he wanted, and he wasn’t convinced now that that had been what she’d really wanted—but he had — felt uncertain. He’d never truly felt confident suggesting dates, and maybe that was why he’d always been more comfortable in his singledom: there were no expectations to meet, no risk of disappointment.
 

 Could do an adult section, he said, but Honey would rather die than have to explain the shop’s newest addition to her parents if she went that route. But edible knickers– “You’d help with product testing?” She asked with one raised eyebrow, as if she expected any answer other than yes.

Honey met Charlie’s eye as he wrapped his arms around her, though he made no move to pull her close. She was still holding onto the book in front of her, and that was probably in the way, but she chose to take it personally rather than reasonably, and– oh, he was just helping her out of her apron. She smirked again, not bothering to look at page sixty-two as he mentioned it. “Mhm.” It sounded like he had more to say, and she raised both eyebrows this time to egg him on.

“Yeah?” Dinner sounded nice. She had been planning to eat dinner all along–she did that almost every night, in fact–before he was meant to arrive but this was better. He’d shown up early for it; Honey’s smirk softened, somewhat. “What were you thinking?” She had been thinking of the Thistle, something quick so she could get back, but that was before when she thought she would be eating alone. Dinner with Charlie made it more of a thing–birthday dinner–so maybe they could not just pop over to the pub. This pub, anyway.

“If we don’t take too long we can do page sixty-two before drinks.” Drinks was the birthday plan, but they didn’t need to wait until then to start drinking. She handed him the book so she could take her apron off properly, pulling it over her head and draping it haphazardly over the till. “Let me just–” she reached for the book again– “Put this upstairs.” Otherwise she would forget about it and some unsuspecting child would find it in the morning. Upstairs, her unsuspecting brother could find it, and that would be much more fun. That, and she wanted to change and fix her hair and probably put on some lipstick, maybe look like she hadn’t just spent all day in the kitchen.
 

 Charlie grinned wolfishly, “Surprised you have to ask.”

There was an edge of uncertainty in her yeah, but she was smiling—sort of, he thought (hoped)—and he kept looking at her mouth, her neck, her chest — anywhere but in her eyes. He shrugged softly. “Depends what you like,” he said, letting on that he didn’t really know what she liked. “Something other than chips,” he teased lightly, letting the corner of his lips pull up into a smirk and meeting her gaze finally; he’d thought his diet was concerning (it wasn’t that bad, really), then he’d seen how beige hers was (excluding the brightly coloured sweets she created). “Do you like Italian?” he offered, because he liked Italian and found it hard to believe anyone wouldn’t.

Charlie grinned lopsidedly. “You don’t even know what it is yet,” he pointed out, without giving Honey the out, of course. He took the book from her, then handed it back once she’d de-aproned herself.

He stepped aside to let her past him, following her up the pink spiral staircase and into the flat. Honey went straight to her bedroom after setting the book down, and he considered following her in there, too, but then they wouldn’t get to dinner and he was planning on staying the night anyway— He looked around the living area and kitchen, thought it might pay to check whether she was sufficiently stocked up on booze before they went out (they could stop in an off-licence before coming home, if need be).

He moved into the kitchen and opened the cupboard where the spirits lived: whisky, gin, more whisky, half a dusty bottle of vodka, more gin. He pressed his lips together, still sour about his inability to bring the kind of whiskey he liked into the flat — he’d tried, once, and some invisible force field had prevented him from crossing the threshold with it. Some long-standing charm or other that a previous Flume had put on the place, no doubt.

(He had started to appreciate real whisky, as Honey called it, but he wasn’t about to admit that to her. Yet.)

He closed the cupboard and peered through to the bedroom, the door was ajar and Honey was still moving around. Charlie glanced at the stack of mail on the kitchen table, briefly thought about ‘tidying it’ for her before deciding that he’d rather not be caught snooping through her shit. He chose to actually tidy some of the kitchen instead, clearing the benches and table (save the mail) for later.
 

 Charlie asked if she liked Italian food, and Honey nodded. “Love it,” she said, not unkindly. Pasta and cheese, what was not to love? And it sounded a touch classier than the pub, which seemed fitting for a birthday dinner.

She smirked, shrugged, didn’t particularly care what page sixty-two entailed. She headed upstairs, ditching the book on the table on the way to her bedroom. She half expected Charlie to follow, only pulling a new dress out of her wardrobe when it became clear she was being left on her own. Honey changed quickly, stepping out of her shoes and her jeans before pulling her t-shirt over her head (and leaving everything in a pile on the rug). Her dress was tight, stretchy, pink, short— basically the same as the other handful of dresses she owned.

Honey crossed the hall to the bathroom, touching up the makeup she had on, adding lipstick and quick eye shadow. She was hungrier than she had realized, and she figured she could hurry now, put in a little more effort after dinner, make herself a bit more party-ready before the actual party. She took her hair out of its bun, shaking it loose before running her fingers through it, trying to fluff it up for half a minute before bending forward and flipping it over her head a couple times. It wasn’t the best approach, but she didn’t look dreadful; she couldn’t imagine how she might have fared if she didn’t use the number of hair tonics she did. (That was one aspect of her wardrobe she didn’t use the muggle approach for.)

She moved back to her bedroom to put her shoes on, then grabbed a pair of gold hoop earrings off her dresser before moving through to the kitchen again. “Oh—“ It was tidier than she had left it, and it was obvious why. “Thanks.” The smile she offered Charlie was a genuine one (though there was the brief panic question of does he expect me to do this at his before remembering there wasn’t ever a mess to tidy in the first place).

Honey tilted her head from side to side as she secured her earrings in her lobes. “Not fancy Italian, is it?” She pulled her hem down a little, then had to pull the collar—if that’s what the fabric could be called when it was low cut—up to find a good compromise between the two. It was probably the wrong dress for anything nicer than middle-of-the-road.  

 Charlie turned to meet Honey as she came into the kitchen and he kept his expression intentionally neutral. “S’alright,” he murmured, feeling oddly caught out despite not having acted on the impulse to snoop through her mail. Maybe it was because she’d walked in on him cleaning (tidying, really) her kitchen — different to her walking in on him tidying his own home. He braced himself for some sort of reaction—as if his putting things away in cupboards was some commentary on her housekeeping skills (it was, sort of)—but it didn’t come. She smiled and he smiled back as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck.

“Erm, no.” He didn’t think so, anyway. “Fancier than the pub, but not like— I’m wearing this,” he said, gesturing at his t-shirt and jeans. If it was proper fancy he’d have worn a collared shirt. He took a moment to look at what Honey was wearing then, and his eyes lingered on her neckline—chest-line, really—for a little longer than was truly necessary. With her hair down and her hoops she’d dressed up compared to her usual, even before he’d confirmed whether or not it was fancy Italian, and he was taking that to mean this was like a proper birthday dinner. A date. He inhaled deeply through his nose and wondered if he ought to have poured himself a whisky.

He was getting distracted. It was just dinner, like they’d done before — just at a proper restaurant. He blinked back up at Honey’s face. “Um, so there’s one in Glasgow or in Edinburgh.” He had rung the one in London—the one he usually went to—and asked if they had any restaurants in Scotland. It had taken a few minutes of waiting for the manager to come to the phone, to go back and check, to return to the phone and give him the addresses — but it had been easier than if he’d had to try and use an internet café (he wasn’t about to show up at his parents’ to use the computer). ”I can apparate us,” he offered. “I’ll catch up when we get back.”
 

 It wasn’t fancy Italian, Charlie was wearing that. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, which he was managing to pull off in a way she never could. Maybe it was because he had just tidied her kitchen, or maybe she felt like she could freely admit that now (to herself). She didn’t miss how he was looking at her, either, and she tugged down her hem again. Maybe they could skip dinner.

Or they could go to Glasgow—she made a face when he suggested that—or Edinburgh. Honey nodded. “Edinburgh, aye.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder, tucked it behind her ears. He offered to apparate—by way of not drinking that much—and Honey laughed. “I don’t have to get pissed at dinner,” she said, mostly believing herself. Italian meant wine and unless it was that sweet dessert shite, she didn’t drink wine with much vigor, and she doubted Charlie wanted to split a bottle of that. (Also, wine-drunk Honey probably couldn’t be trusted around Grace, and she was trying.)

Her bag was on the kitchen table and she hooked the strap with her finger. “Am ready if you are.” She held out her other hand for Charlie, threading her fingers with his for reasons other than safely apparating.

Honey didn’t let go of his hand when they arrived, didn’t drop it until they were at their outdoors table, sitting across from each other. It felt like a pub, but brighter, but the food she could see when she snooped around looked really good. And it was her birthday, and she was there with her boyfriend, and it wasn’t nearly as weird as she would have thought this time last year. She smiled as she looked down at her menu, hiding her mouth with her hand after another second.

She scanned the desserts, raising one eyebrow at the liquorice and blackcurrant gelato, then furrowing her brow as thoughts of Will-and-her-in-Italy went through her mind. She glanced up at Charlie with a smirk mostly induced by him. “Thanks,” she said, almost at a loss for something more substantial to say, dipping her chin toward her menu so he would hopefully know she was talking about dinner, the good surprise.. “Almost worth closing early for.”  

 Honey chose Edinburgh and Charlie nodded once — he was less likely to get the shit beaten out of him there, at least. When she laughed he wasn’t sure how to take it—was the idea of him sober-apparating them that laughable?—but her derision was aimed at herself and he relaxed (a little). “Up to you,” he said, a soft smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he imagined the very pissed Honey he would be dealing with after dinner. “I can, then,” he added after a moment’s more thought, with a wider smirk.

She was ready. Charlie looked about himself as if to check that he was (he was), then took her hand as she offered it to him.

They reappeared in a lane just off the Royal Mile, which the restaurant was on. It was a bit different to the one in London—less cosy, more exposed (they opted for an outdoor table)—but they were literally on the mile, able to people watch or admire the view (including the one in front of him).

Charlie scanned the menu and silently shivered; there was a breeze, he should have worn his jacket — but he glanced over at Honey, sitting there in her dress, not shivering, and told himself to grow a pair (even if she was Scottish). (Was he going soft, living in London?)

He flicked his attention back down at the food — there was a lot to choose from. He didn’t particularly want a starter if they were drinking later; the lasagne was always good at the one in London; pollo funghi sounded good, but he wasn’t looking forward to ordering that with his accent — then again, he was in Scotland, they’d be worse. The duck one sounded good too, but would Honey think he was being pretentious? He inhaled deeply through his nose, realising as he was doing it that he was focusing way too much on what she would think of his choice in pasta—

Charlie looked up, eyebrows raised a little in surprise and confusion before he clicked: dinner. Going out, properly. He smiled. “S’alright,” he replied, still smiling for a moment longer before it twisted into a smirk. “Almost?” he repeated, sighed softly, “Suppose I’ll take that.”

A server came over and asked what they’d like to drink; Charlie glanced at Honey, silently double-checking if she was still alright with being the (semi-)sober one. “Erm, a bottle of red,” he said before he could think too much about it (it was always cheaper to buy a bottle by the time he got through three glasses), then glanced at the wine list quickly. “Malbec,” he said after a second, having not actually looked but it was his go-to and he didn’t particularly care that it wasn’t Italian — they weren’t in Tuscany.
 

 Charlie smiled, but Honey was still smirking, holding onto the expression until he matched it. “Almost,” she said again, making her point (and probably making it obvious she didn’t actually mind being there, with him).

She looked down at her menu, giving it a proper look over. There was a box of text encouraging her to enjoy a spritz while you decide and that was all the convincing she needed; she turned her menu over and glanced over the cocktails. She figured she could have one before dinner and still be fine to apparate after—especially if she got dessert, which she was getting distracted by again—and she decided on a drink before flipping the menu back over and settling on ordering the bolognese.

The server arrived for their drinks order; Honey smirked when Charlie ordered a bottle of wine, presumably only for himself. She was definitely ordering a cocktail then, if she was going to enjoy wine-tipsy Charlie. She asked for the apricot prosecco spritz, shrugging when Charlie raised his eyebrows at her. “Not like it’s a bottle,” she said with a laugh, in no way trying to make him feel bad for his order.

Honey was at a loss for what to say next, what to talk about. She and Charlie weren’t really the tell me about your day types, and she had spent last night with him and hadn’t really done anything but work since seeing him that morning so what even was there about her day to tell him about? Maybe it was just this—the dinner—that was throwing her off; they’d eaten together, properly, at a table, right after Valentine’s—not a date—but surely that wasn’t the last time. Galway, also not a date. But when they had run out of things to say in Ireland, they had a room to go up to; that wouldn’t really work now considering she was meant to be hosting people at her flat soon enough.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair, one arm folded across her chest, fiddling with her earring with her other hand. It took her a couple seconds to realize she was just staring at Charlie, as if that might compel him to say something first. She wouldn’t have this problem with Grace, or— she had been about to continue that train of thought with or anyone but thinking about Grace just reminded her about what she had been putting off: telling her about Charlie. But what easier way to tell her than a you can’t leave because it’s my birthday surprise? She could tell Charlie what to expect, at least, and it would give them something to talk about. “Hey, so—“ she waited for Charlie to look up before she continued. “I haven’t told Grace yet about—“ she waved a hand between the two of them. “This.”

 Charlie's eyebrows flicked up when Honey ordered an apricot prosecco spritz. Honey called him out and he almost frowned before grinning once he recognised that she wasn't hinting; "I didn't say anything." But, evidently, his eyebrows had. 

The waitress left them alone and it grew quiet -- made more obvious by all the conversations going on around them. Charlie tried to make a decision about what he was going to eat, settled on the lasagne (sounded warm, would go with the red he'd ordered), then started looking around at the street and the large church across the way, hands folded between his thighs. He glanced back at the menu, just in case he'd missed something-- then looked up when Honey spoke.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting her to say, and he'd considered the possibility that Grace didn't officially know, but had he thought (hoped) Honey had told her best friend? Yes. Was he a little bit caught off guard (offended? Concerned?) that she hadn’t? Also yes. Was he upset about it? Not… really, but he was something. He had told the boys-- Though he supposed he hadn't told Fflur yet and that was probably more telling.

And he was taking a long time to react; he blinked and wet his lips. "Right." Did he sound annoyed? He wasn’t trying to. "You telling her with witnesses because you’re worried?" he asked, attempting to make light of it all, make it seem like he wasn’t that bothered. It did bring up all those same feelings from before, though -- he could understand why she would be hesitant to tell people about him. Them. He wasn't exactly boyfriend (or husband…) of the year material.

Just as he was about to head down a spiral of insecurities the waitress returned with their drinks. Charlie forced a small smile. "Glad I ordered a bottle, then." But she was telling Grace, and he needed to focus on that.

 She couldn’t tell his mood from his one word–right--but then he made a joke and Honey relaxed a bit. She wasn’t worried. Or– “Not for me,” she said with a little laugh and a shrug. Did he forget Fergie’s reaction to it all? Not that she thought Grace was going to punch him, but– she didn’t want to think about it anymore, would get too far into why she needed Grace’s approval.

Their drinks arrived and Honey sipped her spritz. Charlie was glad he ordered a bottle, and Honey nodded, lowering her glass to the table but keeping her fingers wrapped around the stem, ready for her next sip. “Aye,” she said, followed by silence. And more silence.

There was an additional part to it all, not telling Grace, the we occasionally snog (etc.) part. And that was on top of the general anti-Charlie sentiments Grace was harboring, which were mainly Honey’s fault in the first place. She had told Grace plenty about him over the years, but she might have exaggerated his poorer qualities when discussing him previously, and that certainly didn’t play into his favor now that they were dating. (There was also plenty in the newspaper that Charlie brought upon himself, but thankfully Grace travelled too much to really see the full extent of everything.)

So she should probably elaborate, at least a little. “I haven’t seen her since before–” they were a them. “And the last I told her about you, you had just called me a slag because I didn’t want to date you.” She waited a beat before she smirked, because some things had changed (and it wasn’t the fact that she was a slag). There had been some intervening Charlie mentions, of course, like when she had told Grace about the letters last year, and sleeping with him after her breakup; she had needed to explain why he was suddenly invited to their thirtieth.

And then she just… stopped mentioning him, not wanting to deal with Grace’s judgement, not wanting to come up with a reason why she wanted to keep seeing Charlie. In hindsight, that wasn’t her smartest decision.

Still: “Not something I wanted to put in a letter,” she said with another shrug and more of a smile, because that, at least, was true.
 

 The corner of Charlie’s mouth pulled up into a smile; he was well aware that–for some reason– @Grace Howard hated him. For a long time he had assumed jealousy – but it wasn’t like he’d never offered, the first time around. In hindsight, perhaps that in itself was part of the problem – didn’t matter, anyway, he wasn’t about to do it again.

Charlie had a (large) sip of his wine before setting the glass back on the table and sitting back, unconsciously folding his arms across his chest; he was feeling defensive. Honey continued, and Charlie’s gaze flicked to meet hers. His jaw twitched. She (Honey) obviously hadn’t forgotten about the slag insult (he’d apologised since), had gone so far as to piece together that he’d called her that because she wouldn’t date him (there was more to it than that, but he thought leaving it there might be for the best). She was smirking, though, so he attempted to smirk back – mostly succeeded.

Honey was still explaining herself – and he wanted to think that she was doing that because she wanted to reassure him, and you didn’t try to reassure someone if you didn’t care about them, or their feelings, or whatever. It was foreign but not unwanted. Charlie nodded, deciding he ought to put her out of her misery. “Yeah,” he smiled smally.

He waited until she had her drink to her lips again. “Wore you down eventually,” he joked, reaching out to run his finger along his fork handle where it was resting on the table between them. He met her eyes again and offered a more genuine smirk.