She's pretty sure she can guess which string that is for him, and can't help feeling the same slight sting she's gotten every time she looks at the difference between the half-red, half-gold string that leads to him and the steadily burning red one that leads... elsewhere. This would all be so much easier if it were the other way around.

...Or not, considering the way he's sinking his teeth into the things she absolutely did not say. Sometimes she hates the fact that he's a detective. "Nobody said anything about Little."

She certainly hadn't. And she's an old hand at schooling her features, giving him nothing but the exasperation he surely expects, but it's only been a few weeks since her worst suspicions were confirmed at that party, when she'd shifted a little closer and he'd gently spread his fingers over the material of her dress, hand pressed warmly to her back. Just like then, there's a confused and frustrated lurch that feels like it tugs her whole stomach sideways.

She's not a teenager anymore; she's not going to pine away like Kate, moping over someone she can't have. But there's a distinct flavor of annoyance-tinged longing that's been eating at her for months now, that she doesn't understand and wishes weren't there and can't seem to dig out of herself, no matter how hard she tries. "If you keep bringing him up, I'm gonna start thinking you've got a crush on him."