thick brows lilted; though his instinct was to furrow them in his ire, he forced a level of neutrality to his face. he already wore his heart on his sleeve, to have his soul plastered in such display was -- exploitable.
thus, he came across as a grumpy teenage kid, resentful. his hands shoved deeply into his pockets, shoulders slack and slumped -- disrespectful.
“mister strickler,” he started with, tone matching the boredom on his face. “my mother wanted me to tell you that she can’t make ‘tonight’, whatever that was going to be. a shame huh? almost makes you want to, you know, stop pursuing her.”
his tone became a touch aggressive ( protective, overbearing like a bear. ) but otherwise he kept his cool. for now.