Mudminnow River and basically, i wanna know

she— he's not a girl? what? he frowns, chews his lip, and his face folds deeper into confusion, but he remains silent. this guy— he was so clinical and collected, a pair of gloved and powdered hands holding a scalpel, and whittaker felt like a chipped mallet next to him. dingy and vaguely pathetic.
more than anything though, he's impressed.
church, dude, he mutters. i'm whittaker. so we can shake on not, like, biting chunks out of each other, right? because that's seriously the last thing i need. he scratches the back of his head, still distant, still skeptical, but a couple notches more comfortable. despite the haphazard (and largely unsuccessful) tough-guy aura he tries to exude, anyone could see the fundamental naivety in his eyes from a mile away.