Balconial Conversations

60 // mugger material

[I went shopping with my mom yesterday and i went to the men's department and bought boxers. They're purple with penguins (luke would love them ;);) here's a picture (lawlz how sexual). new pyjamas - check.
I also bought two shirts from there. I am a proud believer of buying boys clothes; they're so much nicer. Soft and cotton and loose agh i love it.]
***
"I don't know what you're talking about, no one is getting kidnapped."

Cam regards me silently before rolling his eyes. "I know four girls who were mugged around here at night."

I feel just a smidgen of jealousy, but repress it to the pit of my stomach. Of course he knows girls, he knows a lot of them. Biblically. All in all though, it's nice that he cares enough to spend the evening traipsing around the city with me doing nothing but talking and drinking lukewarm hot chocolate.

"I'm not mugger material." I say with confidence. The breeze is cold and whipping my hair away from my face, but he seems impervious in his windbreaker. I guess it really is breaking the wind. I wrap my fingers closer around the warm cup to find some heat.

"Oh, really? What, pray tell, is mugger material?" His voice is soft, and we're walking so close (our arms brush, the fabric making hushed shushing sounds) that I hear his easily over the din of the traffic and other pedestrians.

"I don't know, small fearful types. I like it think I'm intimidating."

"I think," he peeks under his lashes at me, "that to a mugger... a girl is a girl. Easy prey."

I shove him across the sidewalk and his laughter rings out. "Shut up."

Then someone is sprinting past me, a man with a black hood flapping at his back, carrying a pink purse. Someone screams down the street, and Cam acquires a very self-satisfied smile.

"Don't say a word." I tell him as I toss the rest of the hot chocolate away. He grins, all flashing teeth and crinkled eyes, tossing his in the same metal trash can.

"I didn't say anything." I shake my head and stuff my hands deep in my hoodie pockets. "Are you cold?"

"My hands are cold. Care to warm them, Monsieur Gentleman?" I ask in a lilting voice. Jokingly.

"I would be happy to oblige, Miss I'm Not Mugger Material." He even does a little bow, then goes further and pulls my left hand out of my pocket and places it between both of his as we walk. This brings us closer, almost as close as if I were under his arm.

"You didn't"-

"Have to. Yeah, yeah." He rolls his eyes and presses his large, warm hands around mine. I swoon a little bit as feeling seeps back into them.

He hums a little and we keep walking; my hand between both of his, my heart tripping and stuttering to it's own rhythm.