He hadn’t been shy, but the kiss had only been a very brief taste of the trouble they could get into before she was pulling away. His arm was still around her waist, and Kristoffer might have tugged her back in if he’d only had time to, but there was something in her look that suggested she might make that choice for herself –
Oh, no, she hadn’t. Instead, she smacked his cheek – it stung a little, but he’d been a beater at school, had dealt and received worse hits on the quidditch pitch – and Kris’ jaw dropped slightly, dumbstruck. She had slapped him, and he should be pissed off about that... but Miss Dashwood also didn’t sound entirely as offended as she should. She was reprimanding him, obviously, but Kristoffer had made (plenty of) passes at girls before and he was well-accustomed to being met with stuttering shyness or fiery impassioned loathing. This was a little different: he had kissed her, and Miss Dashwood wanted to be friends.
Kris blinked, his hand dropping back to his side. Friends? He didn’t think anyone had proposed such a thing to him before, and didn’t know quite what to do with it. What was he going to do with Poppy Dashwood as a friend? Were they just going to talk candidly and spill drinks on each other and flirt a little if they ever saw each other again, and Kristoffer was supposed to forget that he’d tried to kiss her and she had slapped him?
“You’re a real tease, you know that, Miss Dashwood,” Kristoffer said wryly, narrowing his eyes at her as if she had planned all this to the beat, as if she hadn’t known what she had been inviting with all that talk of trouble and adventures. But there was a part of him that couldn’t quite be angry at her, part of him that had already relented and called her Miss Dashwood as a sign he would be proper again, because she... she had given him a mischievous look that Kristoffer could only interpret as not today, but maybe another.
That was what he was counting on.
“Alright,” he agreed magnanimously, brushing an imaginary fleck of something from his shoulder, as if this meant nothing to him. “Fine. I’ll forget what you did,” he gestured at his reddened cheek, “if you forget what I did.” Then they could call themselves even, and this wouldn’t get out and humiliate one of them. What Kristoffer didn’t say, though there might have been a glimmer of it in his still-too-smug gaze or his arched brows, was: If you can forget that. She wasn’t out yet, this was hardly the sort of thing that happened to her everyday – so she could try to forget it, but he didn’t think she would.
Oh, no, she hadn’t. Instead, she smacked his cheek – it stung a little, but he’d been a beater at school, had dealt and received worse hits on the quidditch pitch – and Kris’ jaw dropped slightly, dumbstruck. She had slapped him, and he should be pissed off about that... but Miss Dashwood also didn’t sound entirely as offended as she should. She was reprimanding him, obviously, but Kristoffer had made (plenty of) passes at girls before and he was well-accustomed to being met with stuttering shyness or fiery impassioned loathing. This was a little different: he had kissed her, and Miss Dashwood wanted to be friends.
Kris blinked, his hand dropping back to his side. Friends? He didn’t think anyone had proposed such a thing to him before, and didn’t know quite what to do with it. What was he going to do with Poppy Dashwood as a friend? Were they just going to talk candidly and spill drinks on each other and flirt a little if they ever saw each other again, and Kristoffer was supposed to forget that he’d tried to kiss her and she had slapped him?
“You’re a real tease, you know that, Miss Dashwood,” Kristoffer said wryly, narrowing his eyes at her as if she had planned all this to the beat, as if she hadn’t known what she had been inviting with all that talk of trouble and adventures. But there was a part of him that couldn’t quite be angry at her, part of him that had already relented and called her Miss Dashwood as a sign he would be proper again, because she... she had given him a mischievous look that Kristoffer could only interpret as not today, but maybe another.
That was what he was counting on.
“Alright,” he agreed magnanimously, brushing an imaginary fleck of something from his shoulder, as if this meant nothing to him. “Fine. I’ll forget what you did,” he gestured at his reddened cheek, “if you forget what I did.” Then they could call themselves even, and this wouldn’t get out and humiliate one of them. What Kristoffer didn’t say, though there might have been a glimmer of it in his still-too-smug gaze or his arched brows, was: If you can forget that. She wasn’t out yet, this was hardly the sort of thing that happened to her everyday – so she could try to forget it, but he didn’t think she would.
