Oh, that's not what she was expecting. It doesn't have to mean anything. She doesn't let herself react. It doesn't necessarily mean anything, but alongside everything--
And she... doesn't hate it. It's a long journey from it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot. It's miles past the line they've been dancing along for ages. And there's a part of her-- a wistful, not insignificant part of her-- that's wanted to hear that sort of thing.
"Thanks," is all she says, and for once successfully wills herself not to blush. "I'll just be another minute."
The sweater is soft, and looks comfortable. He's got a good eye, but it's got to be more than that; he knows what she'd like, not just what would suit her, what she'd pick.
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And she... doesn't hate it. It's a long journey from it's remotely plausible someone might think you're hot. It's miles past the line they've been dancing along for ages. And there's a part of her-- a wistful, not insignificant part of her-- that's wanted to hear that sort of thing.
"Thanks," is all she says, and for once successfully wills herself not to blush. "I'll just be another minute."
The sweater is soft, and looks comfortable. He's got a good eye, but it's got to be more than that; he knows what she'd like, not just what would suit her, what she'd pick.