Barty exhaled, muscles rippling as he straightened. His eyes - already caught on hers - creased cheekily when Dorcas meandered her gaze from his display.
Play it cool, he reminded himself, hot from more than just the laborious task of moving his father’s furniture the muggle way.
How was that mentality meant to last, though, when her lips curled into that waning smile? Those teeth flashed, pearly and real and oh how he wanted her to bite-
”Say it,” Barty challenged, “After all I’ve done. Please.”
Dorcas cocked her head, braids draped over her shoulder as if to further distance him from her skin. His clothes, hers, the age difference that turned her away when he approached - all so awfully inconvenient.
”Say what?” She played coy but not to provoke. Dorcas was nothing like the rest of his father’s colleagues. Her feet drew her closer, and he hoped he was like a flame. But her hand landed on his shoulder warmly, and he knew; Barty was nothing more than her ever-willing moth, “Good work.”
Fair, sharp, lovely Dorcas Meadowes. Her hand squeezed down, a heated taunt.
Had he called her fair yet?
”Lookin’ fine, Junior.”
Barty’s grin was boyish.
Dorcas always delivered.