Socially Awkward

Chapter Six

CW: Contains Smut

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"You seem... unusually peppy."

He is not. He is not. "It's the run," says Wriothesley as they jog down the block.

"This is barely a run," says Clorinde, keeping pace with him. Her breath control is something else. She doesn't even sound winded. Wriothesley feels like he's one step away from a heart attack. "I have to bribe you with breakfast to come out here."

"It's a ten-minute drive from my apartment—"

"Which makes it perfect for an early morning workout."

Wriothesley whines softly. "It's our day off."

"From work," she says. "Not gains. You've got to get ahead of the curve before it becomes too hard to keep it up."

She isn't wrong. Wriothesley wipes at the sweat on his forehead and gives her a pointed look. "Crêpes," he says.

"If you want to undo all your hard work, I won't stop you, but do you have to pick something so fucking expensive?"

Yes, yes he does. If Clorinde is going to drag him out of bed at the butt-crack of dawn, she's going to pay. Besides, they're just crêpes. What's a little bread when he can sweat it off in the ring? Hasn't been a problem yet.

Clorinde knows what he's thinking, though, and reaches out to pinch his side. "Ten pounds up?" she teases, nails digging in, and Wriothesley nearly trips over an uneven spot in the pavement trying to bat her hand away.

"Mean," he mutters. "So fucking mean."

Thankfully, she says nothing else on the last few blocks they jog to Café Lutece. Once there, they plop into a set of chairs and tables outside, legs burning from the exercise.

"Man, I'm getting too old for this kind of cardio," he mutters the moment his ass meets warm metal.

"Eat it," says Clorinde, flagging over their favorite server.

"Oh, trust me, I will—"

Wriothesley's phone chirps a well-known jingle from the video game Super Kamisato Twins. Clorinde pays it no mind. "Sorry," he continues. "Let me just..."

[Neuvillette] >> Good morning.

[Neuvillette] >> Since you seem to be in the habit of ensuring that I wake up in a ... pleasant mood, I shall return the favor.

The picture that Neuvillette sends isn't explicit; it's him in his bed, wearing a silken and flimsy robe, pale skin glowing in the soft early morning light streaming in from the window. A little lewd. Mostly innocent. Wriothesley is now regretting the flimsy jogging shorts that he chose to wear for his run.

Down, down, big guy, he begs silently, hoping that his dick doesn't rise to the equation, otherwise he'll never hear the end of it. It behaves, nothing more than a gentle twitch of interest. He can work with that, as long as Neuvillette doesn't send any more surprises.

[Wriothesley] >> sweetheart, are you trying to kill me?

[Wriothesley] >> distracting me on my morning run

[Neuvillette] >> Morning run? I thought you would be the type to sleep in.

[Wriothesley] >> oh make no mistake, i am

[Wriothesley] >> my old roomie forces me out of bed on saturday mornings

[Neuvillette] >> That sounds terrible. I would never do such a thing.