Melita
I never had a chance to be soft
I was always bloody knuckles
I was always bloody knuckles
Her brow arched, the subtle challenge only taken to practical, sensible, rational sentiments moments later. As if on cue, her stomach rumbled, and she didn’t even bother being embarrassed, shrugging through the grumbles. Her eyes flickered over to where the cloaks and sewing had been ultimately abandoned by the pillow fight, then to the incriminating cushions themselves, and thereafter over to the tossed clothing laying haphazardly over the small room. She had no idea where the companions had wandered off to – but likely the animals had scattered the instant other motions started. “How about a shower…,” she started, gaze going right back to him to see whatever he concocted or conspired after the suggestion, leaving that open-ended on whether it was together or not.
“Then dinner and cloaks,” she finalized, the prospects of lounging around after their day sounding exceedingly better than wandering back out into the snow or meandering her way home. Though, nose wrinkling, she made no effort to move – waiting until he sealed the decision.
“Then dinner and cloaks,” she finalized, the prospects of lounging around after their day sounding exceedingly better than wandering back out into the snow or meandering her way home. Though, nose wrinkling, she made no effort to move – waiting until he sealed the decision.
and shards of glass
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
I wanted people to be afraid of hurting me
