There are times when all Chibs can think about nowadays is Juice, Juice, Juice. A booted foot pounded tapped in hard succession upon the surface beneath it, callous hands gripping tight an emptied mug with set jaw and closed eyes. A low mumble sounded, near incoherent in its foreign thickness. He reverted to mother tongue quite often as of late to himself.
To say she was worried about the Scot would be an understatement. She’s not used to seeing him like this —-or seeing him at all, for that matter and it’s making her anxious. Because she’s not quite sure if she knows how to comfort him anymore.
