[ His gaze β his demeanor as a whole β softens as she draws close, his eyes falling just once to her fingers as they find his shirt before flickering back up to study her face. He stills, seemingly on instinct, but it's an allowance rather than hesitation or tolerance. A little space offered for the care she demonstrates, in acknowledgment of the fact that not everyone would be so cautious. For a long moment, he just looks at her, his hand rising to find hers, gently pressing it flat against his collar, the spread of his palm finding fabric and bare skin in equal measure. Permission.
(On his skin, the faint scent of bergamot, that citrus-y base a lighter choice than one might have expected from him.)
βThe moment ends as though it's pulled from the depths of a pool, breath and time suddenly resume as they break the surface, as his fingers then curl through hers, dropping to their sides as he leads her to the spot he's picked out by the water.
(The sunlight is still a novelty; he's not sure it ever won't be. The warmth of it, the sudden breadth of colors afforded to him, it's all a wonder. It's uncomplicated, too, in a way that whatever this is isn't. It isn't lost on him that she's more careful around him than most would be β more considerate, in a way he's grateful for, even if he doesn't know how to repay that kindness, given that he's only just beginning to adjust to thinking that he deserves it at all.)
Breezily delivered: ]
Busy? Little old me? Hardly.
[ His hand slips away momentarily, as though suddenly aware of the intimacy implied by such a gesture. Not that it'd be so strange, at this point, butβ again, it's new. (Yet another thing that likens him to the nickname she's bestowed upon him: a little bit of hot and cold, as they suss each other out, rather than the more straightforward affection a canine companion would confer.) Still, he turns to look at her again with a sort of expectant air, one that seems at direct odds with the of course you're here, why wouldn't you be air he's aiming for. ]
Busy awaiting the delight of your company, perhaps. [ A beat, and then, somewhat more honestly: ] I was surprised you agreed.
no subject
(On his skin, the faint scent of bergamot, that citrus-y base a lighter choice than one might have expected from him.)
βThe moment ends as though it's pulled from the depths of a pool, breath and time suddenly resume as they break the surface, as his fingers then curl through hers, dropping to their sides as he leads her to the spot he's picked out by the water.
(The sunlight is still a novelty; he's not sure it ever won't be. The warmth of it, the sudden breadth of colors afforded to him, it's all a wonder. It's uncomplicated, too, in a way that whatever this is isn't. It isn't lost on him that she's more careful around him than most would be β more considerate, in a way he's grateful for, even if he doesn't know how to repay that kindness, given that he's only just beginning to adjust to thinking that he deserves it at all.)
Breezily delivered: ]
Busy? Little old me? Hardly.
[ His hand slips away momentarily, as though suddenly aware of the intimacy implied by such a gesture. Not that it'd be so strange, at this point, butβ again, it's new. (Yet another thing that likens him to the nickname she's bestowed upon him: a little bit of hot and cold, as they suss each other out, rather than the more straightforward affection a canine companion would confer.) Still, he turns to look at her again with a sort of expectant air, one that seems at direct odds with the of course you're here, why wouldn't you be air he's aiming for. ]
Busy awaiting the delight of your company, perhaps. [ A beat, and then, somewhat more honestly: ] I was surprised you agreed.