"What?"
Nick looks across the couch at her like maybe her hair turned into snakes or something.
(Which, as it turns out, is a reptile that he does not like. Nature documentary on ball pythons and he switched directions completely, briskly marching through the kitchen and out the door of their cover apartment.
She probably didn't make it any better, hid a rubber snake in the shower the next morning.)
"Put your foot up, c'mon," Andy repeats her request, pressing her cold toes, nails recently painted a garish shade of purple, into the side of his thigh. Her long legs are tan enough to disguise the old scars on her knees, reminiscent of her childhood skateboard spills.
Nick's still looking at her questioningly, but he lifts his left foot from the knee, foot trapped beneath the coffee table.
Andy rolls her eyes. Pokes him harder. "Other foot."
"Bossy," he mutters, removing her cold feet and raising the appropriate limb. He turns towards her. Andy's all twisted on the furniture, head tipped towards the muted television, some bearded guy screaming about discount prices, her back against the armrest, facing him with her bossy chin and dark eyebrows like they're about to plan something other than one of her silly McNally antics. Her feet are bare and she plucks the thin ankle-length sock off his foot. Presses the bottoms of their feet together.
Nick curls his toes over hers and laughs.