“Are we running, or walking, or racing?”
“My favourite place isn’t far, actually. Irish pub.” She set off down the path at a fairly good clip, braid swinging. Usually people doubting her age was annoying, but Stark was /so/ doubtful it went right into funny. Was she still being ‘interviewed’? Not that it mattered. She did sort of hope he would offer to race.
There was more to Summer Rainault than empathy, after all.
“Hey now, pretty sure a race wouldn’t be fair. I’d win.”
He took off after her, easily keeping up with her own strides. He did not pass her, but he did not fall behind either. Just mutual running going on, nothing overly important. Though as he moved his brain began to wander, as it oft did.
Simply couldn’t help it, but his brain remembered the fact that a few days ago his legs had been so sore, so stiff….
but that’s what not using them for three months does to you.
“/So/ sure of yourself, Mr Stark.” She glanced around, checking the heaviness of the crowd. Not too bad. Plenty to tap off of, not too many people to freak out. She skipped a couple steps, speeding up a touch, then launched into a low-level glide, sans wings. “I don’t play fair. Come and get me!” Then she took off up the path.