The shriek of duct tape ripping off its roll is instantly muffled by the light pats of a hands smoothing the shiny, silver adhesive flat.
Tristan's warm palm skims the ridged tape, exerting just enough pressure to stick the adhesive to the bubbled surface covering the oak desk. Fingers stretch and reach for another roll of duct tape while the dominant left hand holds down another section of curling bubble wrap.
He elongates his lithe body over the length of the large cedar desktop, straining for the extra roll tucked behind a tipped, framed photo. The concentration he applies is disguised by his tongue, peeking pink from between his lips, and a flop of wild, static-infused lock suspended inches from his narrowed eyes.
His fingers poke the overturned roll, forcing it to flip, however, accidentally setting it on a course over the edge of the desk.