She seemed perfectly at ease here, alone with him, but this time Kristoffer felt – all too aware of it. The value of it, or the risk; the trust she must still have in him, however he had acted before. And she seemed, suddenly, more... more delicate than she thought herself. His hold was lighter than it often was in dances, as if he might crush her palm or her waist in his hand if he got too greedy here. Poppy Dashwood thought herself invincible, he fancied – her self-preservation (which she did have: he had witnessed it before, and suffered it too) always seemed to kick in a fraction too late, like she was chasing after something more important first.
But never mind: he could probably afford to relax a little, Kris decided, mouth pulling up in a broader smile when she took off her shoes after all. His hand curled more surely around hers, shifting a little closer to better lead her in the steps – if hardly noticing them, with his gaze affixed to hers.
He exhaled slightly when she spoke. No rebuff: he was always expecting some rebuff with her. Oddly, it felt better, a sincere relief, to have received that explicit permission – ridiculous, the petty powers she had, if she could grant him the use of her name as a gift and he would be glad of it. But if this was their truce for tonight – he had suddenly lost all stomach for the fight, the passive-aggression – the exchange of favours should go both ways. “Call me Kristoffer, then,” he said, smile fading into something smaller and more uncertain. “It’s only fair.” (Merlin, the things he was saying. She was really messing with his head. He had never made much of fairness before.)
But never mind: he could probably afford to relax a little, Kris decided, mouth pulling up in a broader smile when she took off her shoes after all. His hand curled more surely around hers, shifting a little closer to better lead her in the steps – if hardly noticing them, with his gaze affixed to hers.
He exhaled slightly when she spoke. No rebuff: he was always expecting some rebuff with her. Oddly, it felt better, a sincere relief, to have received that explicit permission – ridiculous, the petty powers she had, if she could grant him the use of her name as a gift and he would be glad of it. But if this was their truce for tonight – he had suddenly lost all stomach for the fight, the passive-aggression – the exchange of favours should go both ways. “Call me Kristoffer, then,” he said, smile fading into something smaller and more uncertain. “It’s only fair.” (Merlin, the things he was saying. She was really messing with his head. He had never made much of fairness before.)
