[ Confusion draws deep lines in Buffy's forehead at his remark. She glances up at him as he pushes the door open, fixed on his inscrutably wily expression for only a moment longer before the dim glow of the candlelight draws her attention inside the room. This motherfucker. Slow steps carry her inside the room, and numb fingers reach to pull her purse strap over her head, discarding the bag before she crosses to the middle of the room, taking in each detail and allowing them all to add new facets to her flustered sense of wonder.
She looks back at him then, in the doorway, slack-jawed and humbled by the display. Nothing she can remember would ever make her feel worth this. Every time she thinks he's outdone himself, he goes a step further, as if doggedly encouraging her to believe it fitting. Insecurity at constant war with the gale force of his attentive care.
The door shuts, and she shakes her head. Though she grapples for a firmer, more confident reply about how perfect it all continues to be, she falters (because ur mod doesn't matter when you roll under a 10 on the die in these circumstances shut up). Never for a moment does she doubt the nature of his motives. There's no hidden agenda here, nothing like that, and yet she finds herself asking, simply, impossibly, ] Why are you doing all of this?
[ It's a plain, breathless lack of understanding. Or perhaps, more aptly, a breathless inability to see herself for how he sees her. ]
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She looks back at him then, in the doorway, slack-jawed and humbled by the display. Nothing she can remember would ever make her feel worth this. Every time she thinks he's outdone himself, he goes a step further, as if doggedly encouraging her to believe it fitting. Insecurity at constant war with the gale force of his attentive care.
The door shuts, and she shakes her head. Though she grapples for a firmer, more confident reply about how perfect it all continues to be, she falters (because ur mod doesn't matter when you roll under a 10 on the die in these circumstances shut up). Never for a moment does she doubt the nature of his motives. There's no hidden agenda here, nothing like that, and yet she finds herself asking, simply, impossibly, ] Why are you doing all of this?
[ It's a plain, breathless lack of understanding. Or perhaps, more aptly, a breathless inability to see herself for how he sees her. ]