Isla
After the fourth or fifth knife, Isla has the decency to raise her eyebrows at him as if to ask how many more are going to make a home on the side table. And also where did they all come from. And where did he put them all. Those questions can come properly later though, because he's still dripping water all over the floor. "Hmm...? Oh, it was all very romantic in my mind. In front of a roaring fire that somehow didn't burn us, surrounded by romance novels. Fur rug, glasses of wine, the whole shabang," she says, beaming.
Before she can help him to peel off his wet clothes, however, he's winding his arms around her, Isla mewling a protest that comes out half in a peal of laughter. "Be careful!" she scolds playfully, gesturing to his bandages. "And quit squirming, or I might poke you in the eye." Eventually she settles on rubbing at his hair with the towel, and to hell with it.
Before she can help him to peel off his wet clothes, however, he's winding his arms around her, Isla mewling a protest that comes out half in a peal of laughter. "Be careful!" she scolds playfully, gesturing to his bandages. "And quit squirming, or I might poke you in the eye." Eventually she settles on rubbing at his hair with the towel, and to hell with it.
sooner or later, we all have to wake
and try forgetting everything
and try forgetting everything
