Of course she takes it immediately; calmly, not snatching it off the table, but tucking it into a pcket. Only then does she turn her attention to the coffee. His comment isn't acknowledge; not verbally, at least. Every inch of her body declares that she's staying for her drink, not for him.
She couldn't hate him if she didn't still care for him. That's the dirty little secret in all of this, one that seems glaringly obvious to Cameron. It always has. It's why she's lashing out with silence, here; why she can't give him what he wants. She deals in extremes. The moderate distance of friendship is more torment than comfort, because she wants-- knows she should have-- more from him.
But as ever, her self-control is impeccable. Her fingers don't tremble in the least as she picks up her cup to take a sip, her gaze slowly rising to meet his, impassive.
who are we to tell ourselves that we're misunderstood
She couldn't hate him if she didn't still care for him. That's the dirty little secret in all of this, one that seems glaringly obvious to Cameron. It always has. It's why she's lashing out with silence, here; why she can't give him what he wants. She deals in extremes. The moderate distance of friendship is more torment than comfort, because she wants-- knows she should have-- more from him.
But as ever, her self-control is impeccable. Her fingers don't tremble in the least as she picks up her cup to take a sip, her gaze slowly rising to meet his, impassive.