FINN
He’s out there, adrift and at peace. The noise in his mind is nothing against this, against nature’s roar. Not quite asleep but certainly not entirely awake, Finn has pulled his knees up, arms and head lolling upon them, eyes drifting shut. But there’s a voice, one that jars him into wakefulness. The storm in him returns and his feet are wet, and he turns to look over his shoulder and up at the woman.
You look like an angel, his addled mind wants to say, still caught between dreaming and here. But he blinks hard, stilling his tongue before he can speak, and nodding to her. ”I’m sorry - thank you,” he murmurs, shifting to get his feet under him and rubbing his eyes as if that might erase the shadows beneath them.
”That will teach me for sitting so close, I suppose,” he says, gazing down at his wet shoes and pants, covered in sand. ”Were you passing by? I would hate to think someone ran down here on my account.”
You look like an angel, his addled mind wants to say, still caught between dreaming and here. But he blinks hard, stilling his tongue before he can speak, and nodding to her. ”I’m sorry - thank you,” he murmurs, shifting to get his feet under him and rubbing his eyes as if that might erase the shadows beneath them.
”That will teach me for sitting so close, I suppose,” he says, gazing down at his wet shoes and pants, covered in sand. ”Were you passing by? I would hate to think someone ran down here on my account.”
