04-29-2020, 12:02 AM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]He'd done this before, hadn't he? Different circumstances - different people. Things weren't the same. It didn't feel right at the time, it was an uncomfortable diversion in a world held up on stilts with someone who practiced loving like he practiced firing a gun.
But it feels right, now.
It feels right enough to make him nervous, the same way he felt when he asked in the past - but the past didn't matter much these days. She asked him if he had a free evening, which was a bold move when he considered they had very little to do with each other before their chance meeting. There's an uneasy tightness just under his sternum that presses deep and asks him if diverting back to old habits was the right thing to do; he answers that it doesn't have to be casual if he doesn't want it to be. (Which is an impulsive thing to think about, and makes the rock sink deeper. He's smarter than this. He should've been smarter then, too, but nobody accused him of having sense on top of all that.)
Though little seems to matter when he puts himself in the driver's seat and lets his mind turn elsewhere, to the road, the radio. Confidence, he's found, is the key to all of this. Being just the slightest bit aloof came second - just enough to make them want to figure him out, to want passage under the surface. Roxanne Roux had already pulled pieces from the wall and found herself steadily chipping away at his old reserve. He wasn't sure if he had a leg to stand on when she had already gone so far as to approach from nowhere and ask him on a date. Or, well, a meeting. An evening. It could've been strictly business. (...He was distracting himself.)
The pulloff to the beach is a rocky one, and Kazuhira is inwardly glad he could justify purchasing a jeep when he moved to the island - something about off-roading and tactical advantages chimed in the back of his head as he went over the specifics a few months before. There are a few other beachgoers packing up for the night, and all at once he feels overly conscious for having dressed so stiffly. Did she want to swim? No, that couldn't possibly be. Mulling over the possibilities leaves him whiteknuckling the wheel where he's parked, forcing the occasional glance at his rearview in hopes of spotting her approach before she could find him. Or maybe he was checking his hair. He'd let himself be a little vain, if it meant looking sufficiently impressive.
(Or maybe it was about personality to her. Shit.)
But it feels right, now.
It feels right enough to make him nervous, the same way he felt when he asked in the past - but the past didn't matter much these days. She asked him if he had a free evening, which was a bold move when he considered they had very little to do with each other before their chance meeting. There's an uneasy tightness just under his sternum that presses deep and asks him if diverting back to old habits was the right thing to do; he answers that it doesn't have to be casual if he doesn't want it to be. (Which is an impulsive thing to think about, and makes the rock sink deeper. He's smarter than this. He should've been smarter then, too, but nobody accused him of having sense on top of all that.)
Though little seems to matter when he puts himself in the driver's seat and lets his mind turn elsewhere, to the road, the radio. Confidence, he's found, is the key to all of this. Being just the slightest bit aloof came second - just enough to make them want to figure him out, to want passage under the surface. Roxanne Roux had already pulled pieces from the wall and found herself steadily chipping away at his old reserve. He wasn't sure if he had a leg to stand on when she had already gone so far as to approach from nowhere and ask him on a date. Or, well, a meeting. An evening. It could've been strictly business. (...He was distracting himself.)
The pulloff to the beach is a rocky one, and Kazuhira is inwardly glad he could justify purchasing a jeep when he moved to the island - something about off-roading and tactical advantages chimed in the back of his head as he went over the specifics a few months before. There are a few other beachgoers packing up for the night, and all at once he feels overly conscious for having dressed so stiffly. Did she want to swim? No, that couldn't possibly be. Mulling over the possibilities leaves him whiteknuckling the wheel where he's parked, forcing the occasional glance at his rearview in hopes of spotting her approach before she could find him. Or maybe he was checking his hair. He'd let himself be a little vain, if it meant looking sufficiently impressive.
(Or maybe it was about personality to her. Shit.)