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Summary
Garcia takes a swig of her beer and levels her with a heady gaze, but stays silent as her free hand gently tugs at the baby hairs that fan Santos’s neck.
Unnerved and despite herself, Santos asks, “How was your Fourth?”
Garcia averts her eyes with a turn of her head, hand coming to rest on her forehead, nearly meeting the now prominent vein there; Santos laments the loss of her touch at her nape.
“It was fine,” she says tersely. “I assume yours went well?” She meets her eyes again with pursed lips and a bored stare.
Santos takes a breath at how she’s somehow upset Garcia already, how it would be laughable if she manages to drive her away for the second night in a row.
or
santos sends garcia some petty drunken texts on the night of the fourth, but garcia still hits her up the next day