Nitpicks and Particulars
"Here, let me fix that."
Hannu's hand went to the scarf at his throat. He frowned at Paju, taking in the stern, stubborn way she held herself. Every time. Without fail, every time.
"There's nothing wrong with it," he said, knowing that he should know better than to protest, but protesting anyway.
"It's tied unevenly. Again." She stepped up to him, batted his hand away, and began to untie it. She wasn't going to have any arguments about it, not that she ever did. "Honestly, Hannu, you're twenty-four years old. You should know how to dress yourself by now."
He certainly didn't feel twenty-four, standing there like a little boy getting his scarf tied by his mother. "I can dress myself just fine."
"You obviously can't. And don't roll your eyes at me."
Every time the same thing, Hannu thought. And yet –
Maybe he didn't mind all that much. Maybe.