He moves away, his eyes anywhere but on her and it feels like something's squeezing the air out of her chest. With a jolt she realizes what it is that's bothering her, it's a sense of, of being out of step? Like she doesn't quite know him as well as she should, or maybe like not being known. But, that's just what happens when you spend most of your time apart, it's probably like this every time she gets back. This indescribable comfort in each other's presence, and yet, little moments that remind her they're not kids anymore, not inseparable anymore. It's just the lives they've chosen for themselves.

Then why does she feel like fucking, begging him to look at her? Why does it feel absolutely fucking buckwild that they chose to be separated?

She pushes her hair back roughly, only half hearing his jokes, and sticks her head into some random cabinet. Maybe-- maybe she just needs a fucking vacation. Space takes a lot outta you and she's just being dumb and weepy. A heady, cloying smell drifts by and she emerges from the cabinet with a bowl and a screwed up nose.

"The only thing that's gotta get out of your kitchen is the trash, dude." It's. Not exactly choice ribbing, nor delivered all that teasingly. She walks back to the counter to grab a knife and something to peel with it, realizes she has no fucking clue where any of his shit is, in his kitchen. She doesn't-- belong here, and she stops, lost.