[ a laugh bleats out of her — not the warmth of bubbly amusement, but like the sound has been startled out of her without permission, wrenched out of her throat. a good heart. it wasn't so long ago that he was treating her like that same organ beating in her chest was rotten and unsightly.

warily, she blurts out, ] Is this some sort of joke?

[ out of anything he's said to her, it's that that twists her face up in skepticism, gawking at him as though he's suddenly sprouted a second head. possibly a third one, too, for how incredulously her eyes dart between both of his. maybe it's what qualifies as a joke to him. or, perhaps less kindly, playing with her head is what brings him amusement.

her arms tighten until the corner of a book prods her sharply in the sternum, like it's some protective barrier against him. ]

According to you, I'm not a good person. Remember?

[ good intentions don't make you a good person. of all he's said to her, that's what's stuck under her skin the most, a thorn embedded. it had felt like a slap to the face, then; it still does upon remembering it. one first impression of her, and that's what he'd taken away from it about her. ( and maybe she isn't, after all that's changed inside of her — a doubt that creeps in more and more these days, a slow-acting poison of crippling paranoia. ) ]

You've made your feelings toward me painfully clear. Let's not pretend you suddenly have a pleasant opinion of me.