[ Neither of them know it, but the stagnancy of this place — it's a feeling Jackson knows. It's a feeling he knows and it's something Darla doesn't share with him, at least not verbally, and maybe that's better for the both of them. There's no guarantee that Jackson would understand anyway, phrased into something so concrete and quantifiable like words.
He tips his head, the green of his eyes quietly searching her face. It's not a hunt or an active excavation; Jackson works more quietly than that, the small things he's learned to lean on rather than the root of words alone.
no subject
He tips his head, the green of his eyes quietly searching her face. It's not a hunt or an active excavation; Jackson works more quietly than that, the small things he's learned to lean on rather than the root of words alone.
Eventually: ]
Are you alright, Darla?