Life had been uncomfortable for Desdemona in the two-and-a-bit months since Art Pettigrew had kissed her (after about three weeks, that had been her official internal story: best to ignore the fact that she kissed him, given that nothing had come of it). Though the chaser had wanted nothing more than to avoid the man who she’d made a fool of herself with only to have nothing come of it, it was very difficult to avoid those one worked with. She had since found every encounter at least marginally awkward, and tried to keep them as brief as a possible once any hopes of a progressing relationship had been dashed upon the rocks of time’s cruel march forward.

Her heart skipped several beats, therefore, when the other chaser called after her.

Dezzie paused in her tracks, self-consciously relocating a wayward curl behind her ear as she mentally prepared herself before turning around. She was being silly, she knew; she had probably just left something on the pitch.

“Yes?” she asked lightly—almost breathlessly, if she was honest, though she quickly cleared her throat to rectify that!