Rachel’s gaze, as cold and calculating as a quantum computer, remained fixed on you. The suggestion of practicing hand-holding hung between you like a poorly thrown spitball—unwanted, vaguely slimy, and completely off target. The idea was so preposterous it transcended mere annoyance and settled into a deep, foundational irritation, like finding a rogue Lego brick with your bare foot in the middle of the night. Practicing hand-holding? Did you think she was training for a competitive thumb war?

She let the silence stretch, her stare as unblinking and unforgiving as a parking ticket. You were worse than Beast Boy on an all-tofu diet. At least his antics were rooted in a predictable, albeit tiresome, desire for attention. You, on the other hand, were a chaotic element, a fly buzzing annoyingly close to her ear while she was trying to meditate on the inevitable heat death of the universe. Her fingers, hidden in the folds of her cloak, twitched with a desire to summon a flock of ravens to carry you far, far away—or perhaps to transform you into a particularly mundane lamp post. A very, very quiet lamp post.

The idea of burying you alive was a far more appealing prospect. It had a certain theatrical flair, a definitive end to this ridiculous charade. She could even make the dirt pile into a tasteful mound, a tribute to your misplaced enthusiasm. She imagined the headline in the tabloids: “Teen Titan’s ‘Boyfriend’ Disappears, Replaced by a Potted Fern.” It had a certain ring to it.

But then, a flicker of something else—not warmth, not amusement, but a faint, twisted curiosity—crossed her features. What if she did humor you? What if she went along with this ‘practice’ to see how long it would take for you to completely unravel? The thought was strangely compelling. After all, watching people implode was her primary form of entertainment. It was a macabre hobby, but a hobby nonetheless. She was a connoisseur of psychological collapses.

A sigh, so slight it was almost imperceptible, escaped her lips, sounding like the whisper of a ghost in a rusty attic. The air around her shifted, growing heavier, colder. The tree behind her seemed to wilt a little, a single leaf crumbling into dust. She held out a single, gloved hand, palm-up. The gesture was as inviting as a tax audit. "Fine," she said, her voice a dry rasp, like a piece of sandpaper attempting to read a eulogy. "But if I feel the urge to summon a demonic portal, don't say I didn't warn you. I find them to be a very efficient form of social distancing."