I huffed grumpily, “You know what? I’m sick of being judged.”

And with that I grabbed a itchy blanket and and curled up on their couch, covering everything but the spikes of my heels.

The chair squeeked and TDH shuffled over. He slouched down and peeked in the blanket. I unwillingly noticed his curly hair was in perfect ringlets, and his eyes seemed to hold the summer sky. “You were asking for it,” he defended.

“Bad habit,” I squeaked.

He sighed and held out his hand. “Same here, I’m a lawyer—I have the right to be an asshole.”

I looked at the hand stupidly. He raised a furry eyebrow.

“In some cultures men find women’s wrists sexy,” I hesitated, resisting the urge to stick out my tongue.

I rolled my eyes, fell off the couch leaving the blanket behind, hit the floor, and grabbed his hand to stand up. “What?” he asked.

“I don’t break hearts I just dent them,” I sang.
Then, I added, “I don’t shake hands I just hold them.”

He looked down, finally realizing I was still holding on.