She kisses his cheek, and reigns herself in from trying anything further. Intimacy can exist when both parties are clothed; this isn't some issue she has to push past. She just prefers different unions.
"Do my best not to make a fool of you," she says, picking up the scissors, and cutting off a long section for herself. It's set aside on the night table, to be bound into a keepsake for later.
He knows the difference between cutting and keeping. Her traditions, the way it holds unique meaning, much like the locket ever slung around his neck, hidden well beneath the high rise of his armor.
When she returns from setting those strands aside, his face turns to meet her own. Lips to hers in the quiet dark, low and patient in the way of all things wholly devoted.
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"Do my best not to make a fool of you," she says, picking up the scissors, and cutting off a long section for herself. It's set aside on the night table, to be bound into a keepsake for later.
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When she returns from setting those strands aside, his face turns to meet her own. Lips to hers in the quiet dark, low and patient in the way of all things wholly devoted.
“I am a fool already.”
For her, and her alone.