Bjorn’s gaze skipped from the vast space behind her to the movement of her hands. His eyebrow cocked at the offering, grip on the handle tightening. The weight of the gun between his fingers was right. He’d done well in reloading early.
“No. Thanks. Keep ‘em,” he replied, using his free hand to gently motion the magazine clips towards her. His jeans felt heavy already from the clips he carried in his pockets, and the lining of his leather jacket brimming with hidden firepower. There was only so much he could carry before it became too big a burden.
“I’m good.”
And he was, in every sense of the word. The home-bound tome—worn from use—was firmly pressed to his skin beneath his clothing, readily accessible should things go awry. Brushing down the front of his jacket, he stepped away from Rowan and past her.
There it was again.
“——Later.”
“No. Thanks. Keep ‘em,” he replied, using his free hand to gently motion the magazine clips towards her. His jeans felt heavy already from the clips he carried in his pockets, and the lining of his leather jacket brimming with hidden firepower. There was only so much he could carry before it became too big a burden.
“I’m good.”
And he was, in every sense of the word. The home-bound tome—worn from use—was firmly pressed to his skin beneath his clothing, readily accessible should things go awry. Brushing down the front of his jacket, he stepped away from Rowan and past her.
There it was again.
“——Later.”
