Nate
"How exactly do you plan on figuring out where it is?" Nate's voice grows quieter in the bar, his first few thudding steps nearly drowning it out. His tongue finds a place between his teeth as he steps towards the counter and starts setting things down, his gaze focused on things twisting in the lichtenburg scars in the wood. A smile finds his face somewhere on the meandering trail up towards Isla's features, Nate flopping over the counter as soon as his arms are empty. "No, I mean it." Bright blue eyes burn with a sudden intensity, at odds with the looseness of his body. "Point me in a direction and I'll go, but uh... I'm not much for plans. Someone else has to do that."
Do you read fuck-up in my walk?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do I mean anything at all?
