Oh, god, she’d never tasted that particular flavour of patience before. It was sour and she couldn’t decide which of them it hurt more. Summer took the wine glass, sniffing it before throwing back a long swallow.
“You’re going to tell me that you aren’t interested,” she said, low and with barely any inflection. Just like that, the butterflies were gone. This — was familiar. Painful, but she knew this ground. “That you don’t do serious relationships,” she went on. The glass turned in her fingers.
“The words you use might be different, but what you want to say to me is that you hurt too much to let someone else in. That you’re tired of being hurt. Being forgotten. Not finding answers.” Summer looked down into the wine, then up at Lydia’s face.
Lydia’s jaw dropped for a moment as the girl spoke, then snapped her mouth back shut. Alright then. That had been… absurdly easy. Of course, there was the question of how she had known all of that, but, moving forward was likely better than lingering on a topic.
“There’s also the fact that you’re not nearly six feet of pure defined muscle with a dick attached. I kind of have a type, and I want to stick with that. A character flaw, I know, but I gladly accept it. I tried once with one that didn’t fit my object of desire, and it was terrible. So…”
Lydia just shrugged her shoulders, and took a sip of her own wine. Honesty. Pretty much the best policy for the day. “You’re welcome to stay and celebrate the New Year with me, and I’ll even give you a peck at midnight, but that’s it, sweetheart.”
Summer fought down a blush as Lydia described her ideal partner. She took another swallow of the wine, hoping that would cool her face. It helped the blush, but even that little bit of alcohol, running through her bloodstream, began to unravel her control over her powers.
Putting the glass down, she finally sat down on the couch, as far back in the corner as possible. Away from temptation. “Will you tell me about it?”