Gaspard sat, arms pulled tight across his chest, as he watched his sister pace back and forth in front of him. She was, probably, too high-strung for whatever it was that was making her pace. But that was Cece. She overthought, over-emoted. Gaspard, in kind, overthought and under-emoted. But it worked. They balanced each other out. Gaspard had learned to keep his emotions in his core because he knew that it would benefit his sister. “Cece,” he said, his voice even--though there were hint of warmness reserved for her and her alone. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
@percy-shingleton






