“You’re always done,” she sneered, but she turned around. She needed to get out of here; she’d been at the party long enough, and no one would miss her. There was still work to do tonight, and she needed to get shit under control before then. Didn’t want to pull another knife on another guy - he might not be so damn understanding about it.
“Goodbye, Cian.” If only it were really that fucking easy.
“And somehow I’m still here,” he said, as if he refused to let her get the last word. He could be that petty. But also, he could be that frightened -- that when she said good-bye, she could mean it, that in the end she’d test his promise to send her out in a body bag if she bolted.
Could he do it? He didn’t even know.
But he could do this, too -- grab her shoulders, yank her against his chest, kiss her hard. For a few really fucking excellent moments, he could be too worked up to care that this was breaking his own rules, that this was making a miserable situation worse.
And then he could let her go and say, “Yeah, good-bye,” and book it out of there before she could say anything else.
When the red haze of temper (and, arguably, temporary insanity) faded, he’d consider if this could be salvaged, but not tonight.
By the time she’d opened her eyes from the unexpected kiss, he was gone. She waited, quiet and alone, until she was sure she wouldn’t run into him - there was only one way out, and she was taking it, party be damned. She’d have to talk to Loch later, apologize to Damia and Audrey and Miles, but she just couldn’t do this.
Not tonight, not ever. That much was clear.
She made it all the way home before the first tear fell.