Alec looks up at her from the table, his hands splayed on the surface, still weirdly relaxed for someone being restrained like a prisoner in a cop drama getting interrogated by the loose canon on the force. The weight of her half on his back seems to settle him as much as it did on his front.
Until Aisha goes still, staring at the drawings scattered around him, rigid with - he has no idea.
His eyes slide to the drawings, the closest a black and white sketch of Aisha with a shock of vivid purple threaded into her hair.
"I can explain," he says, and goes quiet.
The moment drags out, his eyes fixed on the drawing, and then he lets out a small, resigned sigh, looking back up at the far preferable real Aisha. He notices, as if this is an important thing to notice, how her face has gained some definition of maturity.
She's older. He thinks she's older than him now.
"Okay," he says, "I can't explain. Never mind. This is not a good look for me."
no subject
Until Aisha goes still, staring at the drawings scattered around him, rigid with - he has no idea.
His eyes slide to the drawings, the closest a black and white sketch of Aisha with a shock of vivid purple threaded into her hair.
"I can explain," he says, and goes quiet.
The moment drags out, his eyes fixed on the drawing, and then he lets out a small, resigned sigh, looking back up at the far preferable real Aisha. He notices, as if this is an important thing to notice, how her face has gained some definition of maturity.
She's older. He thinks she's older than him now.
"Okay," he says, "I can't explain. Never mind. This is not a good look for me."