silence follows his statement, as damning as the words that winter chooses not to say. that even now so late in the evening she has work to do. but it’s self-inflicted, and winter knows this. that is what makes it easy to lean back in her chair, and draw her fingers away from her glass keyboard. 

     “would you like me to read you something?” 

     it seems silly, the minute the offer has left her lips. it’s so juvenile, and whitley isn’t a child anymore. but perhaps he is, and perhaps that’s why he’s calling her of all people so late at night, so sleepless and alone. winter turns around, fingertip dragging across the spines of the few books she has in her quarters aboard her airship. they’re all manuals, and she runs her tongue across her teeth. 

     “or maybe recite a story i’ve read you before? i don’t have any of your favourites here, but i remember them. what do you think?”

#justMEMEDme