just because the fog is there
Vesper's mouth quirks as the glass is set down, a dry flicker of something like approval curling beneath his grin. She’s poured the good stuff, but then, of course she has. Colt doesn’t half-ass anything she cares about, not even the hospitality she claims she might weaponise. He tips the glass lightly in her direction before sipping, letting the rum bloom dark and clean across his tongue. It tastes like summer grown up and tired of sweetness—bold, bruising, warm.
She hops onto the counter, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the invitation written in the shape of her legs or the tilt of her hips, but gods, it would be so easy to set the glass aside, crowd the space between her knees with his body hips and tug her forward until denim scraped across tile and everything else faded. To press his mouth to the base of her throat and learn the taste of salt and lime where her skin runs warm beneath the apron, before stripping off her jeans and declaring dinner served. The thought lingers just long enough to sink its teeth in, a predator circling under still water.
Instead, he rolls his shoulder and lets a huff of a chuckle slip loose, the kind that threads with self-restraint. His glass lands back against the counter with a soft clink as he leans into the space beside her again, spine curved in the kind of half-slouch that says he isn’t bothered by proximity, even if his shadows have crept fractionally closer to her ankle.
"Oh?" he drawls, letting the word stretch. "All this counter space, and you’re sayin’ you don’t cook?" His brows lift with exaggerated disbelief, as if she’s just told him she’d rather drink water than tequila. The grin that follows is slow and wolfish, amusement playing in the corners of his mouth as his gaze drops deliberately to the flour dusted across her apron. "Funny," he murmurs, "you sure look the part."
And then he’s in motion, peeling away from the counter with the ease of a man used to moving through other people’s spaces like they’re already his. The bags await—silent, orderly, curated—and he starts pulling them open, laying out meat and produce with the careful, casual grace of someone who doesn’t need to rush to be in control. "Bowls," he says, as if he’s asked her for something simpler than surrender. "Spices, if they’re not ancient. An’ I’m assumin’ the grill out front ain’t just ornamental?"
She hops onto the counter, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the invitation written in the shape of her legs or the tilt of her hips, but gods, it would be so easy to set the glass aside, crowd the space between her knees with his body hips and tug her forward until denim scraped across tile and everything else faded. To press his mouth to the base of her throat and learn the taste of salt and lime where her skin runs warm beneath the apron, before stripping off her jeans and declaring dinner served. The thought lingers just long enough to sink its teeth in, a predator circling under still water.
Instead, he rolls his shoulder and lets a huff of a chuckle slip loose, the kind that threads with self-restraint. His glass lands back against the counter with a soft clink as he leans into the space beside her again, spine curved in the kind of half-slouch that says he isn’t bothered by proximity, even if his shadows have crept fractionally closer to her ankle.
"Oh?" he drawls, letting the word stretch. "All this counter space, and you’re sayin’ you don’t cook?" His brows lift with exaggerated disbelief, as if she’s just told him she’d rather drink water than tequila. The grin that follows is slow and wolfish, amusement playing in the corners of his mouth as his gaze drops deliberately to the flour dusted across her apron. "Funny," he murmurs, "you sure look the part."
And then he’s in motion, peeling away from the counter with the ease of a man used to moving through other people’s spaces like they’re already his. The bags await—silent, orderly, curated—and he starts pulling them open, laying out meat and produce with the careful, casual grace of someone who doesn’t need to rush to be in control. "Bowls," he says, as if he’s asked her for something simpler than surrender. "Spices, if they’re not ancient. An’ I’m assumin’ the grill out front ain’t just ornamental?"
don't mean nothing's behind it
☆ has a pale star tattoo beneath his left eye, and freckle-sized constellations move across his skin
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
☽ hair changes from bleached blonde to brown
☆ telepathic: Sunlit Shadows | The user can read the surface thoughts and emotions of those within a 60ft radius. Control is excellent. Note: "Thoughts and emotions" include anything written in a character's narration in a post.
