[ She meets his eyes readily, not looking away — letting him see that she doesn't buy that unimpressed look on his face anymore than he's buying into her taunts. His hands are too honest for her to be deterred, running through her hair, coaxing her in closer. Her body settles more fully against his, the slight tension in her arm easing as the press of her palm against his chest becomes more of a caress, fingertips trailing up along the line of bone until she nudges him with affectionate mockery underneath the chin. ]

Maybe. [ Strange is probably a polite way of describing her. ] But that probably says more about you than it does about me.

[ Since she's his type and all. ]

You knew I was strange when you met me. [ Wryly then: ] That didn't fucking stop you.