AmaLiA
the archangel
The aroma which wafts from the tray of bread is undeniably enticing, and despite her earlier protestations Amalia's stomach rumbles a hopeful note. Her dark eyes flicker from the rim of the cup, long fingers fluttering against the page of her book, but she doesn't reach for a pastry. She won't give him the satisfaction.
Not yet, anyway.
His chiding is met with a wrinkled nose and the edges of a scowl beside her eyes, though she does not snap back yet. He's holding something as tantalizing as the food in front of her now, and he knows it. Alas for her pride, curiosity gets the better of Amalia in the end; "What's going on?" she wonders tersely, caving entirely and grabbing a sandwich with a reluctant and defeated air not unlike that of a cat consigned to scratches. It tastes good, at least, and the girl closes her eyes as the first bite melts into her mouth, a deeply ingrained appreciation for food softening the angles of her anxious face.
Not yet, anyway.
His chiding is met with a wrinkled nose and the edges of a scowl beside her eyes, though she does not snap back yet. He's holding something as tantalizing as the food in front of her now, and he knows it. Alas for her pride, curiosity gets the better of Amalia in the end; "What's going on?" she wonders tersely, caving entirely and grabbing a sandwich with a reluctant and defeated air not unlike that of a cat consigned to scratches. It tastes good, at least, and the girl closes her eyes as the first bite melts into her mouth, a deeply ingrained appreciation for food softening the angles of her anxious face.
you're breaking your own heart
