Gela makes a funny face but supplies her own back to him: "Baynrac," without thinking. He won't recognise it. There's no reason that he would but it still makes her heart skip a beat, to have said aloud something that she is not supposed to tell people about.
Pushing through it, ignoring the clammy feeling on her palms when they shake hands, she grasps for anything to shift the conversation toward instead. They best be off the business of names. Their scarred hands are not unlike each other: Gela's are smoother, but she bears old, jagged skin along her knuckles. She notices his. "Looks like we've both been through the wars."
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Gela makes a funny face but supplies her own back to him: "Baynrac," without thinking. He won't recognise it. There's no reason that he would but it still makes her heart skip a beat, to have said aloud something that she is not supposed to tell people about.
Pushing through it, ignoring the clammy feeling on her palms when they shake hands, she grasps for anything to shift the conversation toward instead. They best be off the business of names. Their scarred hands are not unlike each other: Gela's are smoother, but she bears old, jagged skin along her knuckles. She notices his. "Looks like we've both been through the wars."