Hushed Willows my bones are headstones, darling

she was about the accuse him of sleeping so blatantly in the woods, but he does it for her. he was simply laying there. for what reason, she could not conceive. perhaps he had not been on the road for too long. she would never rest so openly in the wilds, away from familiar ground. but she was not yet focused on criticizing him. instead, she focused on the rough timbre of his voice and the paleness of his eyes and the curve of his shoulder bone— holy shit not this again.

the last time she was this enamoured with a boy she ended up leaving a trail of blood across the Wilds and a necklace of raised skin on her throat. instead she dashes away her increasingly flustered feelings with a half-amused puff of laughter, which she hopes sounds more like condescending laughter than a embarrased snort. what are you doing here then, if you are not sleeping?