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“Oh, for God’s sake,” Clint complains through a mouthful of cookies, eyes fastened to Kate’s ass and legs in those stupid tight shorts she apparently bought recently, while she twists this way and that in front of the mirror, like she’s been doing for way too fucking long (how did a full-size mirror even get into his living room, sheesh, things really need to stop just appearing out of thin air), “yes, don’t worry, you look hot, will you stop now?”
He realizes what he’s said the moment she whips around, eyes wide for a moment, lips parted, face pale, ears pink, before raising a brow at him, full of judgement (and maybe disgust, but he can’t quite tell). Aw, shit; he really needs to learn how to shut the hell up.