[He is glad to see her, this slender, coiled spring of a human being. He wears the trophy of their beach encounter with casual temerity, and despite her better interests, sense, and reason -
Well. He certainly is no Wake. Wake was never happy to see anyone, in Mercymorn's experience.]
...I can't say I'm sorry I came.
[It's the sort of remark that might be off-hand from most, and is meant to be from her now, but her rotten heart always pulses too close to the skin. Something tender and rarely touched in her has been grazed, softly, and it has thrown her off-balance. Her archness echoes in a deep hollow, and thereby loses its edge.
She continues her artistic rendition in the quiet aftermath, the squeak of marker on paper seeming far too loud to her ears.]
no subject
Well. He certainly is no Wake. Wake was never happy to see anyone, in Mercymorn's experience.]
...I can't say I'm sorry I came.
[It's the sort of remark that might be off-hand from most, and is meant to be from her now, but her rotten heart always pulses too close to the skin. Something tender and rarely touched in her has been grazed, softly, and it has thrown her off-balance. Her archness echoes in a deep hollow, and thereby loses its edge.
She continues her artistic rendition in the quiet aftermath, the squeak of marker on paper seeming far too loud to her ears.]