hands. that’s all you could focus on and feel. well, a hand. a particular someone’s hand that should not even be as close to you as it was, and sure as hell not right on your thigh. he couldn’t do this in front of anna and norman! he shouldn’t be doing this at all.

reacting wasn’t an option. you had no interest in interrupting dinner to confront him, or to suddenly leave the table and abandon the two nice people who’d just opened their home to the two of you. you’d just have to push through it.

on the outside it seemed as if nothing was out of the ordinary. your nervousness nor the attraction you felt was able to be spotted - you showed off some false confidence, flashed soft smiles, and added your input when needed. but you never once glanced his way. looking at him only made it worse; he can keep his smug grins and oblivious facade to himself.

as soon as the plates were rinsed and popped into the dishwasher you announced your goodbyes and retreated to your room, secretly grateful that he made no move to stick around once dinner was wrapped up. every day that passed as a milligan seemed to peel away every assumption and perception you had of him before - he was completely the opposite of how he was before.

he was clingy. touchy. yearning for your touch and attention like some like dog on steroids. another reason why you seemingly couldn’t escape his bubble.

he played it off as if he didn’t care as he spoke. that’s what he always does. but someone who didn’t care wouldn’t be tracking my every move with his eyes and using his fists to defend my honor. “what we’re you doing with that guy at school?”