[ Sorry, Korra. You're hot and everything. But Hei's libido usually takes the backseat to his appetite. The microwave dings; he serves the dishes, with a pitcherful of fresh milky lychee juice from the fridge. Heaping steaming portions liberally into both his and Pai's plates, he pours into the glasses -- one, two, three. At her seat, Pai bears such a neat poise that she might be an illustration for a lo-fat cereal ad, in a magazine aimed at schoolgirls, all without looking like she's personally picked up a dirty plate or made her own breakfast in her life. Meanwhile, at her corner, Korra looks jittery, tense, like a wary animal debating between lapping at a watering hole -- of fleeing altogether. ]
[ Sliding into his chair, he catches Korra's wrist, drawing her to him. His gaze is shaded, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. ] Sit. The drinks aren't poisoned. [ He's already pulled his chair around so he's sitting between the girls at the little square table, rather than at an angle next to either one. ]
no subject
[ Sliding into his chair, he catches Korra's wrist, drawing her to him. His gaze is shaded, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. ] Sit. The drinks aren't poisoned. [ He's already pulled his chair around so he's sitting between the girls at the little square table, rather than at an angle next to either one. ]