she shouldn't be here. ‎ ‎shouldn't be standing five meters away from you. shouldn't be memorizing the curve of those familiar eyes—those lips. warm, tastes like sin—tastes like copper when wounded. it's heaven, undeniable and profane. fingers threading into her mane, nails scraping against her scalp... ‎ ‎she can't leave. she can't move. she didn't want to look at you, but she couldn't help it. you're there, right there. and it was like staring right on a gun shoved on her face, but the one facing it is not the mean adult she is but that younger her, with a soul. ‎ ‎she shifted in her heels, looking away and try to focus on something else. because if she didn't look, it wouldn't feel that much, right? she wouldn't feel that tightening in her chest, right? that hollow feeling in her guts? wouldn't witness the possibility that maybe you weren't looking at her like you used to before she stabbed you frontally for you to see after she got what she needed. ‎ ‎she didn't want to feel it. she didn't want to feel. she didn't want to be that woman. but it was there—and she couldn't ignore it and it made her heart burn. it made her palms prickle like she was being crucified. it made her tongue heavy like she wanted to say something and pry—but she didn't. she never did when it mattered most. she didn't want to falter and care like that last time, didn't want to see you more than a spell ingredient she got sentimental with — that true love's kiss. ‎ ‎she turned her head, finally daring to look at you, and face you, like facing a dragon, and the moment she did, she wished she hadn't— but she swallowed her personal feelings, like she always does, her jaw set stubbornly, her lips pressed to something that wasn't quite a frown but damn close. ‎ ‎"ah. so this is the hunter you boys have been bletherin’ 'bout," she drawls, sweet venom lacing her words, a dazzling smile stretched across her maroon shaded lips, looking you over like you're a stranger, as if you weren’t the one that made crowley bloom in her womb.