Herman waited for Meaghan to say something coherent. His mind was a jumble of satisfaction (he'd said it!), dread (he'd said it!), trepidation (what would she say?), and a sudden spurt of anger (she should say something). She ought to be mine, a corner of his mind said, and the anger won -- if she wasn't going to react, he'd make her react.
He leaned forward across the table, planning to just grab her and kiss her, to stop her mumbling uhhs and umms with something better, but the table was too wide and in the momentary pause occasioned by this problem, he had second thoughts. "You don't have to say anything," he said sharply instead, and practically threw himself backward and up off of the bench. He'd go somewhere else, the better to allow her to not say anything to him.