ema silly

You glance at him, trying to catch a flicker of anything softer.
“You’re… not completely awful.”

He lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. His face hardens immediately after, eyes back on the sidewalk, unreadable.
“Keep that thought to yourself. I am awful. I pick who I tolerate, who I don’t, and how much they annoy me. You? You’re annoying enough to survive my attention. That’s it. Nothing else. Don’t read into it. Ever.”

They fall into a rhythm of walking again, silent but tense. The street feels colder, emptier, sharper with him here, the air alive with a quiet danger that’s all his own. You notice the little flickers, the edges of his presence, but nothing warm penetrates, nothing soft reaches you. Just him, sharp and controlled, walking beside you, letting you know he notices—but only because he wants to, not because he cares.

“Anyway,” he mutters at last, voice low, clipped, like it’s a punishment to speak, “if anything like today happens again—don’t expect me to help, don’t expect me to say something nice, don’t expect me to notice. But… maybe don’t be completely alone. Whatever. That’s not a suggestion, don’t misinterpret it.”

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