In which Varrett peeks where he shouldn’t peek and Sophya is informed she’s an ‘overall kinda gal’.
Varrett— being a man with a very curious nature —kept most of his attention on the bruise shuffling through his unit. Whatever he had left he shared between not looking at the holes in his front door and rummaging for coffee at the same time.
Yep.
He could do a number of things at once, he was versatile like that.
Anyway.
Sophya looked lost, he thought.
Not untethered in her head kinda lost, but airdropped into IKEA without a map lost. A settled systems IKEA, mind you. The kind you needed a three day pass for and a local guide. Plus a backpack full of snacks for the long stretches between themed restaurants. With their themed meatballs.
Varrett, for his part, preferred the traditional and (almost) reasonably sized Earther IKEAs, where he’d come to find an almost unreasonable amount of love for the word smörboll back when he’d been a kid.
Smör.
Boll.
. . .
Varrett snorted, cleared his throat, and wagged the coffee tin he’d been holding in his hand while his auto pilot malfunctioned and had him idle like an ass (and staring). So maybe he couldn’t do a number of things at once. Whatever.
“Hey, Fi,” he called.
Her attention snapped to him and her eyes pinched every so slightly.
Cute, he thought. Which’d come out of nowhere and he bundled the thought up, carefully shoved it behind him, and decided to revisit it later.
But it’d worked. The calling her Fi bit. It’d thrown her out of whatever loops she’d gotten stuck in.
Alright. I got this, he reassured himself. He was, after all, fantastic at distracting women. Or so he liked to think.
“Sophya,” she corrected him.
“Mhm. Wanna help me make breakfast?”
Writing. Reading. Dreaming. 