Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

Wonderful, he replied, his voice laced with a hint of exhaustion as he brought in the wine, along with a plump hare that he placed before the dark-coated woman. I'm not sure if you like these, Machi said, nudging the rabbit closer to Legend before surrendering to the fatigue that weighed heavily upon him, sinking down to rest beside her with a soft thud.

He observed the jackdaw with his offering for a moment, hoping to gauge her mood, before turning his attention to the wine, savoring each mouthful with the practiced ease of someone well-acquainted with seeking solace in its depths.

As the comforting embrace of alcohol enveloped him, Machi extended the bowl towards Legend, his gaze unwavering as he studied her, thoughts swirling in slow, contemplative circles.

It was only after several seconds that he finally spoke, his voice soft, I'm sorry for what happened earlier. It was... uncharacteristic of me.

Sitting beside her, he couldn't shake the gnawing guilt that tugged at his conscience; whether it was his own fears or a genuine concern for Legend's feelings, he couldn't say for certain.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.
Regret nipped at him, a reminder of his stubbornness and the unnecessary conflict it had caused. Why did he need to be so difficult? He had bedded many before her without desire; there had been no need to be so obstinate this time.

Make it up to her, pacify her, appease her, win her back.

Here in this other place, floating on bubbles of liquor, clarity emerged, and Machiavelli found himself clinging to old habits, despite the pain they caused. That was a pain for a future him to deal with.

Hesitantly, he reached out to brush a strand of loose fur from her arm, letting his touch linger.

Win her back.

I really don't know what came over me, love, the man murmured meeting her moon-glow gaze finally, Perhaps, if... you'd still like, I can make it up to you now.

Win her back.