When he walks in the door, she promises herself she won't fall again. The lie slides down her throat, bitter and familar as she remembers for the first time in nine point two hours (oh, has it really been that long?) how his eyes were a mix of blue and brown that she though looked better on a pendant than stuck to his face.

He ambles in, frustratingly casual, passing by her with a sly smile, a tap on the shoulder, and a wiff of the scent that never fails to get her high. And she wants to slap the smile off his face, cover him with bruises; she'll do anything to make her not want him anymore. She wants him to hurt like he hurt her.

He doesn't know, she realizes; he doesn't know that she knows everything, how he kissed the wrong girl, and not even the correct wrong girl. So, she follows him like the little puppy she's turned out to be; it's like tradition, the two of the hanging out in the mornings.

Their destination is the same, the kitchen, the only place in the center with shelter and leftover chips from the lobster bake. In his typical fashion, he grabs the handle of the fridge and bends down to take a closer look. At a self-proclaimed six foot three that was probably closer to six foot two (aren't we so sick of the male ego?), he's the only member of the staff tall enough to have to bend down, and she takes care not to check out his butt (but it's such a cute butt).

"Sup?" He askes amid the OJ and Mason's leftover pasta. "You and Ashley exchanging your tonsils in the Crack Shack", she wants to spit out, but she's not really supposed to know about that little incident, so she settles for a casual, noncommital "Nothing much, you?"

He answers with the milk jug, a brown bottle that looks suspiciously like Hershey's syrup (but when you work at freakin' b-rec, you can never be sure), and a "Chocolate milk, anyone?" She nods and turns around to grab two glasses, handing both to him and desperately trying to keep her heart out of the transaction. It's the latter that's she's had quite a bit of trouble with lately.

He pours milk into both cups, taking care to add a sizeable amount more to the one he marked "K"; hell, boys will be boys. She's not sure why he feels the need to dump half the syrup into his cup, but his typical boyish reaction is another reminder that things are normal, despite the fact that the flippity-floppity feeling in her mid-intestines is telling her otherwise.

She grabs the syrup bottle from his hands, flesh brushing flesh, and she wishes she'd waited for him to put it down (because touch is dangerous when i'm torn between loving you and hating you). She averts her gaze and concentrates on stirring whatever he'd left in the bottle into her cup of milk. The liquid laps the rim of her paper glass violently as she reminds her self to breathe, dammit. A small amount dribbles on the sensation like a slap, the feeling of his hand touching hers soothed.

"Shit, I gotta go. Lavallee's got some kid in a headlock and Dillon's on rampage." His warm hand goes to pat her right hip, and she shivers at the contact. He mutters something about stupid kids and crappy jobs, then disappears into the hall, leaving as quickly as he comes. He's good at that, she supposes.

She grabs her chocolate milk with one hand and lifts the other to her curled lips, stifling the typical, girlish laugh that she always emits the second he leaves. She's foolish, she knows; jaded by heartbreak but still naive enough to believe that maybe this time will be different. She shakes her head, following him because this damn job depends on it, and tries to pretend that she's not falling.