She wanted to hold onto him - wanted to align their hips and tug on his shirt and tug on his mouth with hers and stand there in the middle of the town markets curled around him - whispering all of her secrets as he cupped her face and searched her eyes with a soft expression (a gentle movement at odds with his careless seduction and means-to-an-end flattery).
But she can’t do that, because that’s how life goes, so instead they play a game. Curl themselves up in the rapid art of seduction and pretend - for the people walking past, for Gwen behind her, for amusement - that they don’t love each other. That he’s the lothario and she’s the lady. And nothing else.
And as he swerves around her haphazardly, and bows mock-gallantly and holds his hand to his chest as she kicks a swift, laughed rejection towards him, and smiles as she offers him a condolence gift (a small, white daisy that he holds on to, even after it all turns sour), she lets out a grin. Aching to press her forehead to his and tell him she hasn’t felt so carefree in months.
But she doesn’t - holds up the performance like a professional and stares with constructed disdain, turning her eyes downwards slightly as he turns towards her once more,biting the flower between his teeth and winking - and she loves him so much she can barely breathe.
