COLT
Usually, I ain't the type to stay up all damn night
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
Thinkin' 'bout someone else
It's hard to be fine when your heart's on the line
And the truth is I'm goin' through hell
"I'm using the counter space," she protests, a hand gesturing at all of her claiming it as a chair as if it's obvious. "Besides," she continues like he's in need of an education. "I said I cook as well as I bartend." She nods pointedly towards his rum. "You got a drink, dontcha?" As for her attire, she glances down at it as if guilty as charged. "I do bake," she clarifies further, brushing off some of the flour she just now noticed. "Very different from cooking."
A quieter moment sinks in among the playful corrections though, her hand running over the cool marble surface with a touch of fondness she doesn't often linger on. "Anyway, this counter really belonged to my mother. She was the one who loved cooking, and baking." Colt does not remember her well any more, too young for the memories to stick so strong, but she does recall the way she'd been warm and always wreathed in music. Her mother often hummed and sang through each day's work, and she always had a fragrance to her that was delicious, like she couldn't help but stay dusted in all the spices she used.
The memory fades under his rise to industry, her attention flicking up with a slow curl to her lips as he finds a pace she didn't think he could manage, like lazy stroll was his only setting and not just the default. She slides off the counter to fetch the request bowls, setting them out with a jingle as the stack hits the counter. "Define ancient," she asks skeptically as she pulls a few jars out of a cupboard and gives them a test shake, tilting her head as it rustles by her ear. Movement seemed like a good sign. "'Course not, the grill is where I do my best bartending."
A quieter moment sinks in among the playful corrections though, her hand running over the cool marble surface with a touch of fondness she doesn't often linger on. "Anyway, this counter really belonged to my mother. She was the one who loved cooking, and baking." Colt does not remember her well any more, too young for the memories to stick so strong, but she does recall the way she'd been warm and always wreathed in music. Her mother often hummed and sang through each day's work, and she always had a fragrance to her that was delicious, like she couldn't help but stay dusted in all the spices she used.
The memory fades under his rise to industry, her attention flicking up with a slow curl to her lips as he finds a pace she didn't think he could manage, like lazy stroll was his only setting and not just the default. She slides off the counter to fetch the request bowls, setting them out with a jingle as the stack hits the counter. "Define ancient," she asks skeptically as she pulls a few jars out of a cupboard and gives them a test shake, tilting her head as it rustles by her ear. Movement seemed like a good sign. "'Course not, the grill is where I do my best bartending."
I keep it dark, I keep it quiet
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
But then you come around and light me up
Takin' up space like a hyphen
You're on my mind and I can't fight it
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.
