She has a pretty good sense for men that are interested and men that aren’t. There are a few reasons that he doesn’t bother to open his eyes that come to mind. One, he’s just really enjoying his nap in the sun. Two, he’s an asshole (but his response and the tone of his voice suggest this is not the case). Three, she just doesn’t do it for him. And in this instance she can assume it’s not just her, because he hasn’t even looked at her. Which is entirely fine. She simply likes to know what she is dealing with before walking into a situation. It changes things, or at least, her behavior, if she has a guess.
His voice is thick, accented, and either it’s a Torchline accent she hasn’t run into or Outlander. She doesn’t know enough about this place to be sure, and truthfully, she doesn’t care. Outlander or not, she’s always just more curious to know what they know, what sort of questions she can ask. Currently, she is just curious about him, the somewhat cryptic reply, the way he folds his hands over a scar. That’s the sort of thing she won’t ask about, because she hides her own scar beneath a shirt and a braid, even if the act of hiding is more habit than anything else.
”The sun,” she says, sitting down a polite distance beside him, propping herself up on her elbows with her toes digging into the sand, making little holes to bury her feet. ”The sand. Curiosity. No good reason.” She says with a shrug, letting her head fall back and closing her eyes against the sun. ”I’m Weaver,” she adds.
His voice is thick, accented, and either it’s a Torchline accent she hasn’t run into or Outlander. She doesn’t know enough about this place to be sure, and truthfully, she doesn’t care. Outlander or not, she’s always just more curious to know what they know, what sort of questions she can ask. Currently, she is just curious about him, the somewhat cryptic reply, the way he folds his hands over a scar. That’s the sort of thing she won’t ask about, because she hides her own scar beneath a shirt and a braid, even if the act of hiding is more habit than anything else.
”The sun,” she says, sitting down a polite distance beside him, propping herself up on her elbows with her toes digging into the sand, making little holes to bury her feet. ”The sand. Curiosity. No good reason.” She says with a shrug, letting her head fall back and closing her eyes against the sun. ”I’m Weaver,” she adds.
weaver
-- kiss you like a whiskey fire --
