Swiftcurrent Creek Stare al Proprio Posto

Whatever moment he could have had with Milan was fleeting before it could even arrive. He noticed Arlette's steps, her scent too late, only noticing her presence when her voice sounded outside of his ear. He nearly bumped his head on the log above them trying to get out. When he padded out of the den, his eyes swam with embarrassment.

My apologies, Arlette, guilt made his throat feel thick. humiliation warmed his face in an increasingly uncomfortable way. I wasn't thinking—I'll escort her to the border, now. And when he looked back at the oaken woman, his face was hardened, stoic, as if to not betray vulnerability. A reflex. An instinct. He looked back at her.

Stepping aside to allow her space to exit, he would cast one more apologetic glance at Arlette, and when he realised Arric in the distance, he knew he was truly fucked. His gaze returned to Milan, eyes cold, lacking the affection they had held only a few moments prior. This way. He guided, making pace towards the border.

He would have to apologise for this. To both parties: Milan and Arlette.