[Visible through the spy hole in the door: his face, from the bridge of his nose and lower, eyes cast down so that fair lashes conceal a worry equal to her own. Half of a shoulder with jacket, shirt and tie all miraculously matching shades of grey, blemished only by patterns that would clash more on his old, habitual brights. A line of day-old stubble on his chin, but trimmed, not grown there unkempt.
What can't be seen until she opens the door is the small, hopeful bunch of flowers clasped carefully in a hand still ringless but not looking emptily so. Violets had seemed the least intrusive option among the summer's tropical colours. Catching his breath as the door clicks he looks up and offers them out, smiling awkward as a kid showing up for his first date.]
it seems that all my bridges have been burned, but you say that's exactly how this grace thing w
What can't be seen until she opens the door is the small, hopeful bunch of flowers clasped carefully in a hand still ringless but not looking emptily so. Violets had seemed the least intrusive option among the summer's tropical colours. Catching his breath as the door clicks he looks up and offers them out, smiling awkward as a kid showing up for his first date.]
Hey.