I don't like feeling like this. I've got reasons for it, but I still don't have to like it.
"That's a nice shirt." It's later - much later. She's running her left hand down the line of the buttons, twisting fingers into the gaps and pulling, gently.
She looks up at him, expression bordering on coy; it settles strangely on her face and makes something inside him twist, tense. "Was it expensive?" The catch in her voice tells him what she's going to do, and he reaches instinctively for her wrist. He's completely forgotten the knife pressed against his thigh, held warming in her right hand, until it pushes almost gently into his skin, cutting through fabric like water. In shock he watches her slide her fingers around two of the buttons of the shirt, grip and tear.
"Was it expensive?" She's smiling, shreds of cloth in her hand.
The one thing he was never able to do was lie to her.