"Fancy meeting you here," Melva exclaimed suddenly, and the outburst caught Reeve's attention in little to no time at all. His gaze caught hers, and the two of them stared at each other for a good while before he walked over sat next to her, smiling warmly.

"Same to you," Reeve returned, grabbing the can of beer she was handing to him. It was her own, but she assumed they were on at least halfway friendly terms and that he wouldn't care about such a small detail. Obviously not; he took a sip of it and slid it back to her. "I would've never placed you as a drinker." She shook her head.

"I'm not, really. I just like a beer every now and then." He lifted a brow. She smiled and held the can with both hands, watching his every move very intently. With an awkward-looking shift in his position, Reeve managed to catch her gaze and look back at her, trying to scan further then he was allowed. She broke the stare and tapped her beer with her fingernails. "What brought you here, Mr. Tuesti?" she asked, retaining the formal name as her term of endearment. Though it seemed a very submissive thing to do for a girl as rebellious as herself, both she and Reeve understood the calling of "Mr. Tuesti" to be flattering and friendly, nothing close to her referring him as her superior. She knew her place under him, of course, but she liked him. Sighing and looking around for a moment, he gathered his thoughts before speaking.

"A bitter loneliness," he said in a quiet voice. His brow furrowed in an exaggerated manner. She followed the look up with an expression of extreme sympathy.

"That's so deep, Mr. Tuesti." She copied the volume.

"That's because I was lying," he told her, still keeping a fake sadness in his voice.

"I picked up on that, thank you."

"But honestly," his voice had resumed its normal, cheery tone, "I'm not entirely sure why I came. Maybe there is some kind of bitter loneliness gnawing somewhere that I can't feel. Maybe I'm internally celebrating something and I'm just not aware of it. Maybe I'm just bored!" She shrugged, signaling the traveling waiter over to their table so Reeve could order. A simple beer. Melva raised her brows at the artlessness of his lackluster answer. She half-expected to hear the fancy Reeve Tuesti order some sort of exotic apple margarita with a splash of watermelon or something that sounded only slightly appetizing. But no; just a beer. No lemon or ice or anything.

"What a boring choice," she whispered, more to herself then anything. He smirked and leaned back in his chair, pointing at the can of beer she held.

"I'm sorry, but what are you drinking? Beer?" She readjusted herself and smiled. "Exactly what I ordered?"

"Touché. But mine has lemon in it." Reeve showed an expression of respect, though there was an obvious hint of playful sarcasm hiding underneath.

"So yours is fancier then mine."

"Much fancier." He chuckled and took it from her hands, swallowing a few gulps before giving it back to her.

"I don't think it tastes much better then the normal stuff." She resituated herself in a way that showed she was about to give him a very "serious" talk.

"Here's the thing, Mr. Tuesti—you know how there are things like fancy dogs and fancy chocolate? I don't know what they do with the recipes or genetics, but they're never as good. The rich and fancy people can't appreciate true tastiness or absolute cuteness, I guess, because the fancy chocolate always tastes like water and the fancy dogs always look like gremlins. This is why there are people like you, who are appreciative of simple and cheap things that are, in retrospect, better then their fancy counterparts."

"Whoa, hold on," he began. She still held a stern look on her face as she listened. "People like me? What about people like you?"

"I like my beer with a splash of lemon. Clearly, I am fancier then you," she told him, an inescapable grin spreading across her face. He tapped a finger rhythmically against the table, slowly and calmly, like a metronome, ticking away to her doom. She had been teasing, sure, but that doesn't mean he had picked up on it. He wasn't smiling, and she wondered if she had offended him.

"That didn't make any sense," he said, shrugging as the waiter set his beer next to him. "First, you start basically insulting the people who enjoy "fancy things"—" his use of air quotes made her smile slightly "—and then you go to say that you are fancy. So, using this logic, you basically dislike yourself."

"That's not what I'm saying at all," she defended, throwing her hands up in a sign of submission. "I don't dislike myself. I'm just saying that I'm apparently in the fancy category, because I like lemon in my drink."

"Are you sure you're not just drunk?"

"This is only my first drink, Mr. Tuesti." He lifted a brow and allowed an upturn in the corners of his lips.

"That doesn't mean anything. You could be a lightweight." She blushed slightly, though she couldn't say why the color had appeared. Perhaps being insulted, even playfully, was just flustering to her. Or maybe it was because he had done it.

"But I'm not." He chuckled and let a full smirk break out.

"If you say so." She drank her beer at the same time he did, looking out the window as she did so. When she set it down to talk to him, he leaned across the table and planted a strong kiss on her mouth. Shocked, she didn't move away from him. When he recoiled and sat back on his seat, she felt her lips tingle and her heart beat faster. They stared at each other for a long moment before anybody spoke.

"I apo—"

"Are you sure you're not drunk?"

"No, of course not. I only just got here."

"So? You could be a lightweight." He held a somber expression as he set his jaw.
"There is no chance of that, believe me."