She's quiet, fingers carding slowly through dark locks as she looks down at the much smaller woman whos head is upon her lap. Night had fallen thick and fast, the branches clawing at windows and sending the small psychiatrist scurrying to her guest bedroom, where the blonde had taken up residence. The soft murmurs of assurance are spoken against her ear, lips pressing to the same spot to reaffirm the protection she offered.
Alana actually has no word for how much she appreciates this. Coiling against Bedelia du Maurier the way she feels she would've when she was so much smaller. But there's a kiss there and her eyes slide closed, and then open with an even more gradual sincerity. Vibrant blues turn upward and she murmurs carefully, "I'm sorry I got upset with you. Earlier. It was-- shitty of me. Insensitive. I promise I didn't mean it, I just--" I'm not used to people knowing me.
