Ophion/Juliette
"Hm," was his usual response to excuses and it was the only answer he gave to Juliette's. A better man would have asked how she was, would have helped her away from the wall, would have acknowledged his mistake and apologize. Ophion was not this man.
He surveyed her with little patience for such politeness. How irritating were etiquette lessons in his childhood (and here she was, the memory of the kind of company he was meant to keep). Growing up in the Tenements washed away whatever manners he once had. Even now, after years readjusting to a noble's life, he had not broken down the walls around himself.
He was more "noble" this way, he thought, sparing no mind for those not of his blood.
"Don't." Don't hope, don't speak? Neither commands fit the moment. Instead of another scowl, he arched an eyebrow. "You're too—" he began, the last word nice caught in his throat by his frustration.