[ Semi-sheer shirts would be the bane of her existence. Permanently refusing to so much as glance in his direction might prove suspicious if those were involved.
Her mouth suddenly feels entirely too dry. Wetting her lips, she steps back and offers him a short nod. At the moment, she doesn't trust her voice to work, doesn't trust that it can string together any coherent sentences.
With that out of the way, she gives him a wide berth as she changes in the corner. It isn't that she has any misgivings about modesty — or any modesty herself, as befits a child raised by sand. She's more comfortable peeling herself out of her saturated clothing than she had been stripping him, but she doesn't want to unnerve him by giving him a surprise front row seat to her nudity. Ordinarily, it wouldn't cross her mind, but these are different circumstances.
The process takes significantly longer than his own, if only due to the fabric's insistence on stubbornly sticking to her wherever it can. She wipes herself down as best as she can with her discarded shirt, running it along her legs and shoulders to soak up some of the moisture that's seeped through and onto her skin. It's a clumsy effort that barely dries her, but an effort was made. That counts for something.
The pants are her own, but the shirt that hangs off of her — one that doesn't look like it's seen much use for quite some time — is all Han's, loose and comfortable. When she's finished adjusting it, plucking it from where it wants to cling to her ribs, she turns to glance over her shoulder — and then promptly thinks better of it, and jerks her head to stare directly at the wall. Sharing a hut was a horrible idea just asking for them to accidentally infringe on one another's privacy. ]
no subject
Her mouth suddenly feels entirely too dry. Wetting her lips, she steps back and offers him a short nod. At the moment, she doesn't trust her voice to work, doesn't trust that it can string together any coherent sentences.
With that out of the way, she gives him a wide berth as she changes in the corner. It isn't that she has any misgivings about modesty — or any modesty herself, as befits a child raised by sand. She's more comfortable peeling herself out of her saturated clothing than she had been stripping him, but she doesn't want to unnerve him by giving him a surprise front row seat to her nudity. Ordinarily, it wouldn't cross her mind, but these are different circumstances.
The process takes significantly longer than his own, if only due to the fabric's insistence on stubbornly sticking to her wherever it can. She wipes herself down as best as she can with her discarded shirt, running it along her legs and shoulders to soak up some of the moisture that's seeped through and onto her skin. It's a clumsy effort that barely dries her, but an effort was made. That counts for something.
The pants are her own, but the shirt that hangs off of her — one that doesn't look like it's seen much use for quite some time — is all Han's, loose and comfortable. When she's finished adjusting it, plucking it from where it wants to cling to her ribs, she turns to glance over her shoulder — and then promptly thinks better of it, and jerks her head to stare directly at the wall. Sharing a hut was a horrible idea just asking for them to accidentally infringe on one another's privacy. ]
Are you done?