Colt
Love's just one of them words
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
That gets thrown around
So I ain't gonna say it, no I ain't gonna lie
If you were my last breath, I'd just wanna hold ya
A laugh threatens to break free as he cautions her against bossing. "I'm positive I can't, don't fret," she reassures coolly. Proof enough in the splay of bristles and paint across wood alone, a disappointing return to work. She brushes the coating back to something akin to even, having no desire to be scolded by Edith for a poorly done job.
Her restraint slips at his exaggerated disappointment, as if a shower means the world to him, like she hadn't seen him fling himself into the sea like Poseidon's son. She hadn't offered him a beach though, maybe that's the problem. "Yeah well, good help is always hard to find, that's why you do shit yourself." The smile that reached up to her eyes for a moment is schooled back to nonchalance, trying to recover the ruse. Both the one they're playing at with words, and the one in her head. "Shall I fetch her and we'll find out?" Her head tilts, a glimmer of challenge in the corner of her eye before she turns back to finish another set of tan passes to the building's side.
She can hear him walk in further, though she's trying hard not to let every manner of want rise up to the idea of him coming in close, like metal readying to be magnetized. His hand on the ladder stills her. She exhales soft, gaze turning to him after a pause, like she's gathering something up first before she can. Balance, for one, because even on solid ground he makes everything go askew, and she will be damned if she falls off this step in front of him. At his words though, and more importantly the soft way they land, her 'brow quirks up in silent question. He's got a look to him that's not like his usual—too focused. Normally there's a casual drift to him, same as a tide that'll pull you out from shore without you realizing.
The brush gets set down over the edge of a step and she rubs her free hands across the front of her overalls. A new smear of tan adds to the fabric from the edge of a finger she didn't even know had any paint on it. Exactly why she'd worn it. Bracing her questionably clean hands on the ladder's side, she carefully reaches down with one foot, not wanting to bump her bum leg against anything as she retreats back to solid ground. She leans her weight on her better leg as she turns towards him, one arm keeping hold of the ladder while the other hooks a thumb in her pocket. "This is the opposite of helping, y'know?" she points out with only a sliver of actual complaint, because much as she'd say otherwise, he's always free to interrupt her day. Edith can enjoy her shower with a half painted house if need be, although her neighborhood reputation would end up in shreds.
Her restraint slips at his exaggerated disappointment, as if a shower means the world to him, like she hadn't seen him fling himself into the sea like Poseidon's son. She hadn't offered him a beach though, maybe that's the problem. "Yeah well, good help is always hard to find, that's why you do shit yourself." The smile that reached up to her eyes for a moment is schooled back to nonchalance, trying to recover the ruse. Both the one they're playing at with words, and the one in her head. "Shall I fetch her and we'll find out?" Her head tilts, a glimmer of challenge in the corner of her eye before she turns back to finish another set of tan passes to the building's side.
She can hear him walk in further, though she's trying hard not to let every manner of want rise up to the idea of him coming in close, like metal readying to be magnetized. His hand on the ladder stills her. She exhales soft, gaze turning to him after a pause, like she's gathering something up first before she can. Balance, for one, because even on solid ground he makes everything go askew, and she will be damned if she falls off this step in front of him. At his words though, and more importantly the soft way they land, her 'brow quirks up in silent question. He's got a look to him that's not like his usual—too focused. Normally there's a casual drift to him, same as a tide that'll pull you out from shore without you realizing.
The brush gets set down over the edge of a step and she rubs her free hands across the front of her overalls. A new smear of tan adds to the fabric from the edge of a finger she didn't even know had any paint on it. Exactly why she'd worn it. Bracing her questionably clean hands on the ladder's side, she carefully reaches down with one foot, not wanting to bump her bum leg against anything as she retreats back to solid ground. She leans her weight on her better leg as she turns towards him, one arm keeping hold of the ladder while the other hooks a thumb in her pocket. "This is the opposite of helping, y'know?" she points out with only a sliver of actual complaint, because much as she'd say otherwise, he's always free to interrupt her day. Edith can enjoy her shower with a half painted house if need be, although her neighborhood reputation would end up in shreds.
If you were my last shot of whiskey
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
I'd press you to my lips, take a little sip
Swirl you around and around and around
Then I'd shoot ya down
Received a Gilded Market wig from Remi that resembles her usual hair and is enchanted to stay on better than most wigs | has a reverse centaur tattoo on her left hand with the legs going down her pointer and middle fingers that looks like this.
