04-22-2020, 02:32 AM
(This post was last modified: 04-23-2020, 11:39 PM by Nika Raskov.)
Liv was putting out so many tells, poker was clearly not her game. O-kay...what the hell had happened? Should I ask then? Nika was torn before humor from the other side said it was alright to move on. Maybe it was unconscious? Moving on!
Her brows climbed upward at the story and the asshole’s irresponsible display of machismo. Nika made an exasperated sound but shared the laughter at Liv’s awesome revenge. “Jerk. Sorry-not-sorry,” she managed to get in.
She nodded at the family bit. “I run on campus sometimes and the dorms are always nuts. At all hours! I can’t imagine how anyone can get any studying in.” In exasperation she rolled her eyes.
“Oh, I hear you.” Keep it light, she’ll talk about it when she’s ready and that might not be with you. “You get one shot at life so you might as well do what makes you happy or you find your purpose.” Right? Nika smiled. “I grew up here and in Italy, yeah.” She made a vexed sound at herself and switched to a comically-thick native accent. “Here I thought maybe I was doing good job of being Russian.” Her gaze seemed to accidentally land on the cliche lasagne and convey its betrayal. “Vash!” The exclamation saw her produce dessert from within the basket. Her accent was her own again. “Chocolate mousse?” She offered a healthy tub with a dimpled grin.
Her brows climbed upward at the story and the asshole’s irresponsible display of machismo. Nika made an exasperated sound but shared the laughter at Liv’s awesome revenge. “Jerk. Sorry-not-sorry,” she managed to get in.
She nodded at the family bit. “I run on campus sometimes and the dorms are always nuts. At all hours! I can’t imagine how anyone can get any studying in.” In exasperation she rolled her eyes.
“Oh, I hear you.” Keep it light, she’ll talk about it when she’s ready and that might not be with you. “You get one shot at life so you might as well do what makes you happy or you find your purpose.” Right? Nika smiled. “I grew up here and in Italy, yeah.” She made a vexed sound at herself and switched to a comically-thick native accent. “Here I thought maybe I was doing good job of being Russian.” Her gaze seemed to accidentally land on the cliche lasagne and convey its betrayal. “Vash!” The exclamation saw her produce dessert from within the basket. Her accent was her own again. “Chocolate mousse?” She offered a healthy tub with a dimpled grin.