player ♚ lrh

46 - approval

Luke wasn't a morning person.

Elise wasn't either, but she was much more forgiving in the early hours, and much less inclined to show her distaste. That said, the girl didn't have much of a choice, for she was on the clock, and every chime that rang from the door of the café was her gentle reminder to smile, to brighten up in the presence of her otherwise glum customers.

Of course, Luke, sat atop a barstool at the counter, with his chin in his palm and a frown on his face, did not offer the same brightness. He didn't have to; it wasn't his job, and no one—certainly not Elise—had forced him to join her.

Nevertheless, he insisted. She'd told him it wasn't necessary, but after the mess that had ensued the last time, Luke swore to himself he'd never let her go through that again. There was no way in hell he wouldn't be there, even if there was no reason to worry about what any of his former friends might say to her. Not anymore, that is.

So, there he sat, grouchy as ever in the early morning, deathly bored as his girlfriend worked her busy shift, half asleep and half tempted to drag her out of there and back into his bed with him.

He huffed heavily at the thought. What he wouldn't give to have her the way she'd been that morning, head tucked in the crook of his neck, arm draped over his waist, one of his legs pushed between her thighs—

"Luke," Elise called out softly, head tilted, finding a small break between the morning rush of her customers, swiping the counter between them with a damp towel. "Are you alright?"

Shifting in his seat, Luke raised a tired brow. "Are you?"

She shook her head fondly, switching her gaze to the counter. "You have to stop doing that,"

"I won't."

"Have I ever told you that you're really stubborn?"

Luke licked his lips. "Couple times,"

Watching her head shake again, he found his boredom ceasing, his bad mood lifting just the tiniest bit at her attention back on him. He was aware that it was selfish, and that it was his own decision to join her that morning, but he couldn't help it. He liked when she focused on him, and he'd been severely deprived of her in the business of her shift.

Whipped, the voice, the same one he often hated for being so condescending in the back of his head, spoke. He ignored it, aware of the truth.

"You didn't answer my question,"

"If I'm alright?" His brow raised gently. "What makes you think I'm not?"

She could've laughed then. Sometimes, she wondered if he was even the slightest bit conscious of the way he projected himself—and his annoyance—unabashedly. Though, seeing as he'd been visibly sulking for the past hour and a half, she had to guess that he knew, and simply didn't care. 

"Because," she bit down on her lip. "You look mad,"

He didn't falter, challenging her words. "You've seen me mad. This isn't it."

"I said looked mad,"

He let his tongue brush across his lower lip, eyeing the way she'd pressed up against the counter across from him, finding himself leaning the smallest bit forward, enjoying their back and forth. "That's just my face,"