It was. If Annabelle knew that Lauren trusted her to be responsible, she would laugh in his face, despite being flattered. She doesn't think she's ever wrong—but she does know that she doesn't give a damn for responsibility a lot of the time, especially as it feels imposing. Something she really doesn't care for.

Annabelle has finished one mug of ale, as of about fifteen minutes ago. She's a little buzzed, and she wonders if that's why she feels so flushed. She's pouring over the book, not considering that perhaps Lauren might be a little bored because of her inattentiveness—but by now, they're the sort of friends who can comfortably be in one another's solitude without intrusion, and with the benefit of enjoying one another's company anyway.

She blinks heavily, rubbing her eyes, and then squints, licking her lip as she tries to steel her focus a little harder. The pub's a little noisy. Maybe that's it?

But also, her sex feels tense. The labia, the clit, the inside. Not hugely, but it's distracting, and annoying. Since she had that dream about Lauren—and another one, but different and slightly less sexual—it sort of happens at random when she's in his company, and she's gotten a little better at ignoring it. Namely by reading or otherwise distracting herself, even if she gets kind of tense and distant.

This time, though, she doesn't understand. It feels random. Even her breasts feel sort of hot, which is strange. She shifts in her seat a couple of times.

Finally, she lifts her head from her book.

"Do you feel warm?"