Hans Montrose took a tissue and wiped her fingers. "It's not about the knife; some people are just born with bad taste."
"You're the one with bad taste," Melody Thorne kicked him lightly on the calf.
Hans's body stiffened slightly; this was a habit from Melody when they were kids, but it hadn't happened for a long time. He chuckled softly; a person's nature is hard to change, despite how easily one's character can.
He turned back and patted Melody's hair because she was shorter than him, so he often patted her head.
But, for Melody, that gesture was pure contempt—blatant contempt. She immediately stepped onto a nearby stool and leaped onto Hans's back, her arm locking around his neck. "Touch my head again, and apologize quickly," she threatened.
Swoosh, for some unknown reason, a sudden chill of winter seemed to fill the room, and Melody could feel an eerie wind brush past her back.
