"I would never forget my rot mouth."
"I am not your rot mouth," Fedora's high-pitched voice fired back, his eyes rolling with practiced exasperation.
"Ouch!" Miguel let out a very deep whisper. He clutched his chest with exaggerated agony, his frame buckling as he pretended to fall to his knees.
It was an absurd, theatrical act, a desperate play for a crack in Fedora's armor, and it almost worked.
A beautiful smile threatened to break across Fedora's face, but he caught it, stifling the warmth before it could show. Instead, he remained anchored to the spot, arms folded tightly with sass, practically radiating across his chest, as he watched Miguel's performance. His lips remained stretched in an oversized, purposefully ridiculous pout.
"So…" Miguel straightened up, the theatrics dying instantly with a sharp, echoing clap that signaled he was done with the games and ready for business.
