Got the windows down and my fingers crossed
The cherry pits whistle off her tongue with a sharp blow, pinging the ground somewhere in the distance. The juice of the fruit is already staining the backs of her lips a rich burgundy, so that when her attention turns over to the approach of him, the fragile smile that fits into place is darker than usual.
The first sight of him is always a thing to be survived. It pulls against her like a wind that's come out of nowhere, working to rearrange everything she'd put into order. She finds an anchor in the movement across his knuckles, gaze dropping long enough to the flashing coin for the gust to die out. A hand lifts like it's testing the air, fingers faintly spread against the stillness as she waves once in return. "Hey," she offers back, the sound so much smaller than it has any right to be given how much moves aside within her to produce it.
It's a relief to see him here. Part of her still expected she'd spend the day alone on this rock, already accustomed to the way he's chosen before. Even more so, she takes comfort in all the ways he lacks it. She finds honesty in the set of his shoulders, the sort that's been rare to come by with him, the kind she didn't think might survive the night in the meadows. That he still wears it gives her more hope than she expected to ever find with him again. Although that tight wind sits to her like a reflection of her own worries, attributing every rigid line of him to the delay in an answer instead of the way he's holding pressure on a fresh wound.
Having never known the sense that's been muted by being here, she's no understanding of the sting its absence brings, figuring only that its silence could be worth it, for the both of them. The conversation here comes with enough history behind it that she's no idea how her mind might sharpen against it. Although he might not blame her for her thoughts, and asks her to do the same, she knows it doesn't leave either of them unscathed. Ignoring a knife merely because she doesn't grip the hilt with intention doesn't dull its ability to cut.
Glancing from him to her lap, she takes on an appearance of gathering something, but what she lifts is the little red ball, held up for him to see between her finger and thumb. "I got us cherries," she extends, as if there's nothing greater between them than a mid-morning snack. It's intentional, attempting to shear away all the weight she keeps wearing around in mistake for armor. A palm pats the space on the rock next to her in clear invitation for him to try the same.
The first sight of him is always a thing to be survived. It pulls against her like a wind that's come out of nowhere, working to rearrange everything she'd put into order. She finds an anchor in the movement across his knuckles, gaze dropping long enough to the flashing coin for the gust to die out. A hand lifts like it's testing the air, fingers faintly spread against the stillness as she waves once in return. "Hey," she offers back, the sound so much smaller than it has any right to be given how much moves aside within her to produce it.
It's a relief to see him here. Part of her still expected she'd spend the day alone on this rock, already accustomed to the way he's chosen before. Even more so, she takes comfort in all the ways he lacks it. She finds honesty in the set of his shoulders, the sort that's been rare to come by with him, the kind she didn't think might survive the night in the meadows. That he still wears it gives her more hope than she expected to ever find with him again. Although that tight wind sits to her like a reflection of her own worries, attributing every rigid line of him to the delay in an answer instead of the way he's holding pressure on a fresh wound.
Having never known the sense that's been muted by being here, she's no understanding of the sting its absence brings, figuring only that its silence could be worth it, for the both of them. The conversation here comes with enough history behind it that she's no idea how her mind might sharpen against it. Although he might not blame her for her thoughts, and asks her to do the same, she knows it doesn't leave either of them unscathed. Ignoring a knife merely because she doesn't grip the hilt with intention doesn't dull its ability to cut.
Glancing from him to her lap, she takes on an appearance of gathering something, but what she lifts is the little red ball, held up for him to see between her finger and thumb. "I got us cherries," she extends, as if there's nothing greater between them than a mid-morning snack. It's intentional, attempting to shear away all the weight she keeps wearing around in mistake for armor. A palm pats the space on the rock next to her in clear invitation for him to try the same.
Colt
Just lookin' for a brand new way to get lost
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.
