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Scritch, scritch.
The boy’s pencil etched carbon lines into the notepad’s paper, the beginnings of the visage of a songbird starting to form in crude chicken scratch. A calming cello track filled the air as Sinclair drew, a hobby he’d taken to while waiting for his seniors to return to the Dawn office. He’d already read every book in the bookshelves twice, and so had taken to putting the worlds within those books into paper.
He bit the bottom of his lip, squinting as he focused on the details around the beak, trying to emphasize the subtle curve, when suddenly, the door slammed open, making him jolt and sending the pencil flying upwards, making the beak resemble a rhinocero’s horn. However, Sinclair wasn’t mad at all, no. There was only one woman in the Dawn office that would slam the door open like that, and she was the love of Sinclair’s life.
“Hark, young Sinclair! I return from yet another quest for justice, unharmed and undefeated!” Don Quixote declared proudly, setting her cello case on the weapon rack by the door.
Sinclair offered the woman a soft smile, tucking his notepad back into his pocket as he walked over to peck a kiss onto her cheek. “Welcome back, mein Engel. I was worried… That syndicate didn’t give you any trouble, did they?” He asked, pulling away to meet her eyes, a hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip. “Who were they again…? The rusted chains, was it?”
Don Quixote flushed, still not used to the casual intimacy the boy would show her ever since they started seeing each other a few weeks ago. She stammered, trying to put the words back together in her mind. “K-Khm… Of-Of course those ruffians were no match…! A brave fixer such as myself does not cower from animosity!” She boasted, standing on her tiptoes to regain some of her bravado.
However, it would seem that doing so took out most of her reserve strengths, her legs failing her as she started tipping backwards, her arms windmilling about. Sinclair luckily had the foresight to move behind Don Quixote while she was bragging, preparing an armchair for her to sink down onto. “...Though I stood my ground, it would appear that my strength is spent, heh…” Don Quixote spoke, smiling bashfully.
Sinclair sighed fondly, ruffling her hair. “Would you like some ssanghwacha for your energy, then?” He asked, already knowing the answer as he shuffled over to the tea station. Don Quixote perked up, her eyes sparkling as she twisted around the armchair, sitting on her knees on the cushion to peek over the backrest of the armchair.
“Ooh, s-ssanghwacha… T-The drink that is reserved for his lordship, sir Gregor… T-thou would really brew that venerated drink for me…?!” She spoke, bouncing up and down. Sinclair chuckled as he put the kettle on, prepared the teabags, and cracked open an egg, separating the yolk from the whites.
“You know, it’s not really that serious… I serve it to Mr. Oscar, too, when he visits.” Sinclair remarked offhandedly, before settling into a contemplative silence, as he tended to do while deep in concentration.
Waiting for the water to boil, he began idly tapping his index finger against the mahogany desktop; the soft clacking of keratin against wood hiding the gentle footfall approaching behind him. Suddenly, a warmth enveloped him, a pair of arms wrapping around his neck, warm breaths tickling his neck. Sinclair shivered, letting out a shuddering gasp.
All in all, there were simply no words that needed to be said. Sinclair reached upward with one hand, running his fingers through Don Quixote’s hair, her head perched on his shoulder. A beat of comfortable silence passed, the warm evening sunlight flooding into the room. The two stayed like that for some time until the kettle began whistling.
“I missed you.” Don Quixote said before she pulled away, unusually direct to the point. Sinclair turned to face her, raising an eyebrow in concern, but one look at those sparkling, hazel eyes that were full of adoration told him that everything was alright. Shooting back a love-filled gaze of his own, Sinclair returned to brewing the tea, producing two cups of ssanghwacha, extra sugar in Don Quixote’s cup.
The two sat before the coffee table in a loveseat, interlocking their arms as they leisurely sipped from their cups. The warm evening sun was starting to set, giving way to night. Gregor would return from his own job soon, the fixers would clean up the office, and return to their respective homes, ready to face each other once more at dawn.