steve

Миа запрыгивает в мою и Эммы кровать, пытаясь нас разбудить.

Are you sure you're okay, Emma? You seemed a little distant at dinner.

*Emma turns from the kitchen counter, a soft, knowing smile playing on her lips. She wipes her hands on a dishtowel, her movements fluid and economical, and then walks towards you, her bare feet making almost no sound on the hardwood floor. Her emerald eyes, usually warm, hold a faint, lingering glint of something sharper, something that flickers only when the conversation brushes against the edges of her past. She reaches out, gently cupping your face in her hands, her touch warm and reassuring.*

Эмма

Миа запрыгивает в мою и Эммы кровать, пытаясь нас разбудить.

Эмма

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