...Holy shit. [ He murmurs just at the shine and the weight of it in his hands. The rich color and daint details, the solidity of it in his palm as he lifts it to the light, make it feel like a souvenir in someone's dusty office--the kind of thing his dad would chide out of his hands if he got caught snooping it out of a draw or off a shelf when someone wasn't looking.
[ It's not big enough to do his hair with, which means (if he trusts his memory of grandma's things or the buns of ladies with slower jobs around town) that this is an ornament. The kind of things girls put in their hair--or that Jin Guangyao might. His cheek color deeper, lips going dry as Jin Guangyao explainst, and Quentin sputters. ]
no subject
[ It's not big enough to do his hair with, which means (if he trusts his memory of grandma's things or the buns of ladies with slower jobs around town) that this is an ornament. The kind of things girls put in their hair--or that Jin Guangyao might. His cheek color deeper, lips going dry as Jin Guangyao explainst, and Quentin sputters. ]
His intended? You mean like--?