She frowns the way other people smile. Textured. Nuanced.
Easily.
By default, almost, as if her first response to anything, to anyone, is blank protective caution. Distance internalised, because external isn't done. Only bad girls back away. A lifetime's worth of being overwhelmed, and chastised for it.
Like oil across an ocean, her flattened affect flickers to the currents underneath. To anger. Frustration. Impatience.
Affection.
A symphony in microexpression, for those who care to know. In posture and shoulders and hands. The way her scowl draws cushioned creases in her brow.
So when she smiles, Chapel knows she means it.