A Gentle Rapping, Rapping At My Cottage Door

Ruth blew a scoff through his nose and before pulling his shirt over rubbed an ear. I can hear you breathing. These aren’t just for show, they are sensitive. Then as he threaded one arm then another, he’d smirk, You hitch your breath at points trying not to laugh out loud. Pulling his shirt down, a hand reached for the other, his eye rolling over to catch her and the sound. His brow rose, regarding her with a sardonic look. My eyes… eye is up here, Spiderbait.

Cracking a grin, he’d chuckle pulling over the second layer before running both hands through his hair. Elbows leaned on top of knees, hands cradled his head as Ruth tried to recall the haze of the last however many hours since he’s been on some even keel. Nothing. Well, that didn't bode well. A headache was already knocking and despite the uninterrupted sleep, fatigue plagued his movements. His mind was slowly piecing together where he was while his throat, dry and scratchy, hoarsly replied. Food? Na, but… a couple of questions. Ruth stared at her, scrutenising her and then the rest of the cottage. He had no recollection of how he got here or.... We didn’t…his finger gestured between them, eye squinting. Did we?

His stomach wanted to rebel even on empty if they had. Not in disgust or anything, but from fucking up, again. Dora was smart, she still had a soul and the chance at an easy life without his or anyone else's bullshit complicating it, or catching feelings on a worthless one-eyed runt like him.

He should go. Body acting before his head had a chance to comprehend he was pushing himself to stand Ruth stumbled at first before righting firmly. I'm not hungry...