[ there's lots of things others don't know of her— not as if it's their faults. she's perfected a mask that allows her to only be seen at surface level, nothing beneath, nothing more. it's why it's simple, why she often hand waves those that consider her the knives of words that've been tossed her way, murmured within the halls.

no one truly knew her at all. she preferred it that way. a moment later, and she's straightening back up, digging teeth into the coral pink of her lips. ]   A little of both? I mean, unless you count unlimited champagne at the loft as a meal.

[ a little shrug, pulling the ends of pink, cropped sweater to cover her fingers. she doesn't miss the rouge that's kissed to his nose, his cheeks, the suggestion of flesh that it's he whose cold. ]   I'll grab the food, if you want to start the fire.