Blackbeak Bluff closer to the sky

maybe not so much a stepford wife. she looks like she has enough agency— those fuschia eyes rise to meet his. it is whittaker that averts his gaze first, brows furrowed. pale ears flick upwards at her accent. it is dense, smudging the consonants and vowels together like a hand dragged over graphite.
are you saying i'm weak? he asks, pointed and bitter, before deflating as soon as the irriation overtook him. whittaker swims back and forth between being vaguely pissed off loudly and being vaguely pissed off quietly, a wave with a shy amplitude. i didn't mean that, i'm sor— he cuts himself off, and despite himself, smiles, although it is self-deprecating and small.
he clears his throat, attempts to drag what's left of his social skills out of that dusty box in the back of his mind. so, um. what's your name? nothing much to lose sitting indoors talking to a stranger, trying to escape from the tossing and turning winds, except maybe his dignity.