3/23/2026, 8:20 AM
The recess she'd taken shelter in was an awfully small one, impressing him with how she even spotted it in the first place. He gave a cursory look over his shoulder to assess if the storm was raging enough to warrant hustling her back, but a leveled glance back at her had Bogart believing whatever had happened to her needed to be the priority concern. Yeah, I'm okay, but he didn't accept that. Their time together hadn't been incredibly long, it'd be easy for anyone to claim he didn't know her well enough to identify unease so subtle. That didn't matter. Not to him.
Bogart knew how she sounded when she was okay, could recall the way her accent would thicken around the ends of her words, he knew how she held herself.
And until now?
She'd always been open to him.
Sweet words or soft little touches, a kiss to his cheek or her eyes awaiting him to deliver a kiss to hers.
"I don't think ya' are," he said, blunt but not cutting. "Hey now, what's wrong?" Bogart lowered his head to enter the space with her, nose twitching as it worked out the state of her. She smelled of being ill. His throat tightened. "I know somethin' spooked ya', I just can't tell what woulda had ya' runnin' like that."
Raisa's crept forward, trepidation in her movements that he never wanted to see her have with him. "Don't do that, darlin', don't," he met her so she'd stop, and lowered his face to hers before drifting his nose across her body. Shoulders. Sides. Hips. Back to her face. He didn't taste blood, that meant something. "Worryin' s'just what I'm good at." Again, so blunt but so careful with maintaining his gentle tone. His fret wouldn't reach her as anything but tender persistence. "What made ya' run?"
But that wasn't right. What made her run? Not much, he imagined.
Bogart rephrased, "Who made ya' run?" because he could believe someone of immense concern might do it. A growl rolled in his chest, the mere thought that anyone might've terrified Raisa, his Raisa, disturbed him. "I won't let 'em get far, I'll tell ya' that much."
Bogart knew how she sounded when she was okay, could recall the way her accent would thicken around the ends of her words, he knew how she held herself.
And until now?
She'd always been open to him.
Sweet words or soft little touches, a kiss to his cheek or her eyes awaiting him to deliver a kiss to hers.
"I don't think ya' are," he said, blunt but not cutting. "Hey now, what's wrong?" Bogart lowered his head to enter the space with her, nose twitching as it worked out the state of her. She smelled of being ill. His throat tightened. "I know somethin' spooked ya', I just can't tell what woulda had ya' runnin' like that."
Raisa's crept forward, trepidation in her movements that he never wanted to see her have with him. "Don't do that, darlin', don't," he met her so she'd stop, and lowered his face to hers before drifting his nose across her body. Shoulders. Sides. Hips. Back to her face. He didn't taste blood, that meant something. "Worryin' s'just what I'm good at." Again, so blunt but so careful with maintaining his gentle tone. His fret wouldn't reach her as anything but tender persistence. "What made ya' run?"
But that wasn't right. What made her run? Not much, he imagined.
Bogart rephrased, "Who made ya' run?" because he could believe someone of immense concern might do it. A growl rolled in his chest, the mere thought that anyone might've terrified Raisa, his Raisa, disturbed him. "I won't let 'em get far, I'll tell ya' that much."
