There were a handful of things Tiberius might have expected from Antigone. Among them were fits of varying levels of severity, any number of insolent comments, or a myriad of petty gestures such as the blanket-stealing move she'd just attempted. This, however, was nowhere near the list of possibilities that had occurred to him. The hair on the back of his neck bristled as he felt her hot breath close behind him, and the touch of her arm a half-second later made him stiffen immediately. What was she doing? What was the endgame, here? He wanted to look at her for some sort of hint as to what was going on in her head, but he didn't want to move and dislodge the hand from where she'd placed it. What if this was some sort of trap to get him to turn around, and she'd have her wand at his throat when he did? Besides, he knew that her features would be impossible to read in the darkness of the room. He wasn't a good reader of facial expressions even at the best of times, and Antigone had a habit of making so little sense with her moods that he would be entirely devoid of any context clues to figure out what she was thinking.

Was she trying to get a rise out of him? She should have known better than to have tried to bait him with a phrase like I hate you; he was hardly invested enough in how she felt about him to care. If she was trying to start a fight, though, why here and now? And why reach over and put her hand on his arm like this?

He had no idea what to think. Without turning his head to look at her, he said stiffly, "A moment ago you didn't want to be touched."