The only aspect of the stroke that she'd smote him with which caused any alarm was the sharpness of the little knuckles on her bony hands. They were like hard rocks pelted against unclenched muscle. They didn't hurt, but they made him amend to make her feel better, or stronger: "I mean, ouch."
The sinking feeling of there being less obvious fun slid down his spine and tickled, like drops of water. He knew he'd have to go sneaking around to get into trouble, or else she'd find out and throw a fit. This was both welcomed and a chore.
He kind of liked getting caught by her.
"We're in P3. Need me to help you with your bags, or do you got'em, Strongman Von Puncherstein?" He stared down at her with his brows furrowed in such a way indicative of his being sarcastic.