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Ah, the twin pillars of outrage journalism: slut shaming and victim blaming.
Logan had once told Veronica she didn’t have any flight—just way too much fight for her own good.
On the desk was a small pile of dark blue yarn. Hague was a compulsive knitter, sometimes even knitting straight through a meeting. He claimed it helped him think, and perhaps it did—he was one of the foremost research psychologists in his field. All Veronica knew for certain was that he was patently terrible at the knitting itself, the evidence clear in the misshapen sweaters and lumpy scarves he wore daily.
A knitter? I like him already.
He picked up his knitting absently, winding the yarn around the needles.
That’s... not how you knit.
Logan had seen through her; that was one of the reasons she loved him. He could tell her things she couldn’t bear to tell herself sometimes.
*sobs*
