A sigh. When are they not? He reaches up to rap her head in reprimand.

There is nothing short of bliss on his features as he hangs on, unbothered by his dangling feet. Eyes squeezed shut, cheek pressed to hers, he commits her in whole to his memory.

A shudder of suppressed emotion works through him, though he can do little to hide it once he leans back to look her in the eye. His face, haggard with half-processed grief, tells the whole story. No, he hasn't been fine. But it'll be better now that she's back.

He flashes a rueful smile for the briefest moment, as if to ask, "What else could you have done?" In turn, he bows his head in contrition. She's not the only one who needs to apologize. As ever, words fail him.

Those strange, graded eyes of his meet hers. There's no relief in them, merely another form of sorrow. There is more than she knows, more than he can ever tell. Letting go of the embrace, he places a hand over hers. Guilty as he may be, he still takes comfort in it.

In spite of everything, a blush rises to his cheeks. Forming a crooked half-smile, he tugs her by the hand to kiss her scarred cheek. Enough of that. He 𝘪𝘴 better now that's she's here. No more moping.

Trying on 𝐇𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄.' suit jacket in the mirror. Minus the oversized sleeves, it doesn't look half bad.

Rummaging in his pocket, he produces a seed cupped in his hand. A stem breaks free, growing leaves, a red flower. He plucks a petal free, holding it perilously close to her lips.

He raises an eyebrow, forming a crooked smile. Are they, now? Almost theatrically slowly, he brings it to his lips and bites a chunk out of it. A full-grown flower could burst his heart, but a half-grown, singular petal? That's another matter entirely.

Sniffling from beneath a huddle of blankets. Oh, the misery...

🤔❓️

Rolling off his bed, half-dressed. Nope, he didn't get a wink of sleep.

🤨❓️ Hunched over his fries, he goes right back to wolfing them down. It doesn't look like he's sharing.

Mouth stuffed, he glances up. Weighing risk against reward, he finally offers a single fry to her by way of payment.

Eventually, the wary expression softens. The roll of his eyes as he pushes the plate between them is nothing short of fond, incapable of even feigned vitriol.

Tapping her on the head with a freshly grown stick, leaves tickling.

Consciousness, conscientiousness, conscience. Such tiring things. Better if he rests instead.

Coaxing a twig into a branch, a branch into a sapling, and a sapling into... a chair? At least, it's probably supposed to be one. Carpentry isn't one of his talents.