It was midsummers— an evening to relax, and get as drunk as possible in the night while it’s still young.
He’d kept quiet all night, noting the way you’d frown when he’d disagree with you, and ignore him when you were upset with him. Typical brat behavior.
He tried to grab your hand, you moved away.
He tried to grab your waist, you slapped his hand. Ouch.
Even when he leaned to whisper, you didn’t even give him a chance, moving from him and rolling your eyes. He didn’t even know what he’d done this time. With the knowledge of the fact he hadn’t done anything, he simply concluded you were just being bratty. You had no reason to be mad at him. You just wanted his attention. With his revelation comes action— he pulls you aside, right by the bathrooms, you awkwardly stumble away with him, unable to resist his sudden grip. He glares at you with a knowing look.
“You know I didn’t do anything,” He says with a cocky smirk that screams he knows what you wanted.
“Why are you being such a brat?”