Jack's eyes strayed to the only thing of interest on the guy, which was the open notepad in front of him, which seemed to be the cause of the guy's furrowed brow, and the aura of frustration that was emanating from him, seeming to infect her with a restlessness. She began to bounce her knee beneath the booth table, and her eyes narrowed on the page of the source of unease.
A hand brought the cover of the notepad on top of the open page and Jack's eyes flicked back up to the newcomer, realizing she may have been stepping over a line by so rudely staring at his notepad. But he had sat down at her table, and though she knew it had been an accident- he looked so distracted that if she had not said anything, he would not have noticed- he had "crossed the line" that society had drawn up to keep everyone safe and sound in their little boxes.
"Rude is contrary. I have no social objections to strangers," she shrugged, looking out the window, something different in her eyes. Gone was the mischievousness, leaving only a weariness of someone who was done with life. She glanced back, smirking at his mention of hot chocolate. "My hot chocolate will get over it soon enough, I'm sure." She chuckled.
"And surprisingly, it's not." If she was not approached by strangers, she would never have social contact. No one who knew her was stupid enough to strike up conversation with her. They did not seek hermits, who did? knowingly? Hence the importance of strangers ignorant to her true nature. She reached out a hand and shook his hand with the strength of something that was definitely not a seventeen-year-old girl. She smirked. "Jack Dyllan. Look at that, an ice breaker at the ready. Matching names. We could start a club."