Ezra looked at her then, a more lasting look than he'd leveled at her so far in this conversation. He'd been looking off at nothing, or at the corner of her face, or most anywhere to avoid really looking at her except for fleeting glances, but the idea that she was about to leave, and that she was lying (there was something she wanted, he was sure; there was air everywhere, and she'd approached him deliberately), drew his full attention at last.
She's drunk he realized, surprised and disappointed by the discovery. Surprised because he didn't remember her being the sort to need alcohol to get through a saccharine party — but then, if she was thinking back over what she remembered of him she probably would have said he wasn't the sort to be clinging sulkily to the edge of the event and waiting for an acceptable opportunity to leave. He had been that way before, from time to time, but he had never been that way with her; Rosalie only had him on his best days, when they had been together.
And disappointed, because... he had wanted there to be a reason she'd approached him. He was still sure that there was, but in light of this new information it might just as easily have been a reason she hadn't realized herself. And later tonight or tomorrow when she looked back on this, she could call it an alcohol-fueled mistake. He had wanted — without letting himself admit it — something more. This was the wrong venue for anything that fell into the category of more: reconciliation, closure, apology, confession. But she had approached him and in doing so had sparked the idea of it deep inside him, and he wanted.
"Wait, Ro — Miss," he said, catching the slip half a second too late to avoid her hearing it. (Could she fault him for still thinking of her as Rosalie, darling Rose, dearest Rosie? It was progress enough, he thought, that he no longer thought of her as his Rosalie). "I don't mean to chase you off, honestly. I'm sorry. You — maybe you should sit down," he suggested, with a gesture towards the bench. He did not especially like how she'd swayed on her feet. After a moment he added, "I didn't mean it like that."
She's drunk he realized, surprised and disappointed by the discovery. Surprised because he didn't remember her being the sort to need alcohol to get through a saccharine party — but then, if she was thinking back over what she remembered of him she probably would have said he wasn't the sort to be clinging sulkily to the edge of the event and waiting for an acceptable opportunity to leave. He had been that way before, from time to time, but he had never been that way with her; Rosalie only had him on his best days, when they had been together.
And disappointed, because... he had wanted there to be a reason she'd approached him. He was still sure that there was, but in light of this new information it might just as easily have been a reason she hadn't realized herself. And later tonight or tomorrow when she looked back on this, she could call it an alcohol-fueled mistake. He had wanted — without letting himself admit it — something more. This was the wrong venue for anything that fell into the category of more: reconciliation, closure, apology, confession. But she had approached him and in doing so had sparked the idea of it deep inside him, and he wanted.
"Wait, Ro — Miss," he said, catching the slip half a second too late to avoid her hearing it. (Could she fault him for still thinking of her as Rosalie, darling Rose, dearest Rosie? It was progress enough, he thought, that he no longer thought of her as his Rosalie). "I don't mean to chase you off, honestly. I'm sorry. You — maybe you should sit down," he suggested, with a gesture towards the bench. He did not especially like how she'd swayed on her feet. After a moment he added, "I didn't mean it like that."
![[Image: 5WWaDR1.png]](https://i.imgur.com/5WWaDR1.png)