Danielle didn't know why it bothered her as much as it did: seeing that quisby prick draping their arm around your waist, yanking you away from what frankly had been a platonic conversation between the two of you. Yeah, it probably didn't warrant a bitch slap, but the concoction of tacky beer and dodgy whisky had tainted her usual composure, her usual restraint when it came to hiding her jealousy toward your unworthy partners, too.

After pulling you away from the scene in an admittedly hypocritical move, Danielle sat you down on the asphalt beside her. "Sorry,” she murmured sheepishly, sensing your glare. “Okay, I’m not sorry. I hate seeing all these people walk over you. They deserved it. If I.. yeah. No remorse, anyway.” She would have said ‘If I had the chance’, but it didn’t really seem appropriate.