A Blind Eye

[Oriena]

He found both in the same place.

Ori leaned against a kitchen counter, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, feet still bare. After showering she’d donned last night’s dress, the conservatism of its cut making sense in morning’s light, like she’d planned the necessity for duality. Dark hair rippled down one shoulder, mostly dry, and a half-finished cup of coffee nestled between both palms. Without makeup her youth was blatant, but the cynicism of faded blue eyes robbed her of any sense of innocence. She was studying the newly revealed skyline and did not immediately look round, though she heard the telltale pad of footsteps. Behind her, the coffee pot was still mostly full, and from wherever she had found her own cup she’d retrieved another. The generosity came with no cost, despite the pissy game she’d played back at Kallisti. She didn’t appear to acknowledge she’d done it.

Beds belonging to strangers, frayed couches, cold floors, impersonal hostels. She’d spent so many years rootless, even after having acquired bricks and mortar of her own, that the awkwardness of invading another’s private space didn’t touch her conscience, and her morning routines had been leisurely rather than furtive. She’d clearly been up some time, and was just as comfortable with the solitude as company. “Morning.”
The flicker of her smile was a conspiratorially smug tease, though she wasn’t looking for a connection; it was just a transparent glimpse into her mood.

She preferred Jaxen genuinely dishevelled to the artful nonchalance of his preened appearance. It was more honest, and she always preferred a man stripped bare to his visceral nature, even when what it revealed was an ugly soul. An appreciative gaze ran the length of him, tempting her to run a finger along the jut of his hip and tangle into that devilishly low waistband. She didn’t. He’d been right when he’d retorted that his looks and charm hadn’t hurt. They still didn’t. But Jaxen’s wicked jack-o’-lantern smile hadn’t been enough on its own to tether her to the Privilege’s party, once he’d wandered off to indulge his own brand of socialising. She'd stayed because of what he was. Now, her curiosity had been sated, and he had another notch carved into his bedpost. She doubted whatever was left of passion’s after-ashes was of interest to either of them.

For that reason she made no attempt at strained conversation. Her mood was as mellow as the soft filter of morning light streaming into the apartment, leaving her docile as a cat stretched out on a sun-soaked porch. She didn’t care if what little sleep he’d caught had been restful; she didn’t care what plans he had for the day. Given what she had gleaned of Jaxen’s character, she presumed the lack of concern was mutual without taking offense. “Your tattoo. It’s kind of ironic.”