She couldn’t be a complete wreck, an entirely lost cause, if she could still roll her eyes at him like that. And she had called him not very gallant. Kristoffer wasn’t hurt by this, because he expected it from most people – but Poppy, Poppy, was usually more patient with him. She saw him through a rosier-lensed vision than anyone else ever had before.
But not right now, because she was. Hurting. He knew this. He had known this before he came. He didn’t know what to do about it; he wouldn’t know how to start with that. But following that comment, she had softened to her usual self, or he had felt himself recoil and relent, or they had met each other’s gaze and that had melted the rest of it away.
Something caught in his throat at her question, because he was too focused on her hand on his arm to come up with a good excuse. “I don’t have chaperones around every corner to coddle me,” Kris protested casually – not his younger sisters, not his cousins, not great-uncle Lucius. People had better things to do than to care about him, and he could explain this away as working, and no one would care to ask his office about it anyway.
“And I haven’t come to run away with you,” he added, meaningfully. Poppy might be inclined to stay away forever, to go fleeing through Europe to escape her grief, but – he had limits. He wasn’t going to follow her forever, just because he missed having her around. “Maybe I wanted to visit Paris, that’s all.” Without telling anyone. Before the sun had risen. He had been sure of it before he said it, so he almost needn’t have bothered: of course she would know that was a lie. “I don’t like letters,” he added abruptly, still eyeing her face, searching for any small details that might show him how she really was or felt: whether she was suffering, was sleeping properly, was getting better or not.
So now he was here, and if she had anything else to say, she would have to say it to his face.
But not right now, because she was. Hurting. He knew this. He had known this before he came. He didn’t know what to do about it; he wouldn’t know how to start with that. But following that comment, she had softened to her usual self, or he had felt himself recoil and relent, or they had met each other’s gaze and that had melted the rest of it away.
Something caught in his throat at her question, because he was too focused on her hand on his arm to come up with a good excuse. “I don’t have chaperones around every corner to coddle me,” Kris protested casually – not his younger sisters, not his cousins, not great-uncle Lucius. People had better things to do than to care about him, and he could explain this away as working, and no one would care to ask his office about it anyway.
“And I haven’t come to run away with you,” he added, meaningfully. Poppy might be inclined to stay away forever, to go fleeing through Europe to escape her grief, but – he had limits. He wasn’t going to follow her forever, just because he missed having her around. “Maybe I wanted to visit Paris, that’s all.” Without telling anyone. Before the sun had risen. He had been sure of it before he said it, so he almost needn’t have bothered: of course she would know that was a lie. “I don’t like letters,” he added abruptly, still eyeing her face, searching for any small details that might show him how she really was or felt: whether she was suffering, was sleeping properly, was getting better or not.
So now he was here, and if she had anything else to say, she would have to say it to his face.
