[He sifts through the pile, leaving a mess of dropped clothes on the floor as he rushes.
Hank pulls out one of his button-down overshirts: navy blue, abstract pattern. Gray undershirt, if Connor wants it. Some dark jeans. Some underwear and socks, just in case.
Leaving them in a hastily folded pile in front of the bathroom door, Hank turns back to the bedroom. Starts scooping up the stray clothes.]
There. [God, does he sound pissy — all aimed at himself, but Hank assumes Connor might read him wrong, so he clears his throat. Sighs. Tries to sound more collected when he says:] Take your time, Connor. There’s no rush.
no subject
Blue. Gray. Yeah.
[He sifts through the pile, leaving a mess of dropped clothes on the floor as he rushes.
Hank pulls out one of his button-down overshirts: navy blue, abstract pattern. Gray undershirt, if Connor wants it. Some dark jeans. Some underwear and socks, just in case.
Leaving them in a hastily folded pile in front of the bathroom door, Hank turns back to the bedroom. Starts scooping up the stray clothes.]
There. [God, does he sound pissy — all aimed at himself, but Hank assumes Connor might read him wrong, so he clears his throat. Sighs. Tries to sound more collected when he says:] Take your time, Connor. There’s no rush.