“Good,” Conall said just as firmly, pleased enough at Miller’s general demeanour. He had always figured himself a suitable judge of character - he’d known Fletcher was a pompous ass practically within seconds of setting foot in the country, hadn’t he? - and Miller had not tested his patience too thoroughly yet for Conall to be particularly worried. (He could say that more easily now Miller wasn’t staying in the bloody house.)
“Guess that means you’re sticking around, then,” Conall added, the end of his sentence lilting in a question he wasn’t sure he was ready to think about, which was where they’d go next. He’d come over from the States, perhaps they’d go back, perhaps they’d travel - he was happy for them both; this was what he’d always wanted for her, someone who understood her properly; he had no excuse to complain. He’d have time to let this all sink in, he presumed, absent-mindedly picturing the wedding in the midst of a Scottish winter.
“Guess that means you’re sticking around, then,” Conall added, the end of his sentence lilting in a question he wasn’t sure he was ready to think about, which was where they’d go next. He’d come over from the States, perhaps they’d go back, perhaps they’d travel - he was happy for them both; this was what he’d always wanted for her, someone who understood her properly; he had no excuse to complain. He’d have time to let this all sink in, he presumed, absent-mindedly picturing the wedding in the midst of a Scottish winter.
