His other arm slides around her waist as his fingers tangle in her hair. He is relaxed, now, easy; his own feelings well up again within him and he sighs a little against her mouth.
What he feels for her does not overwhelm him, does not frighten him -- the only surprise is that it feels so natural, a blaze that gives warmth and comfort, not a thing that will singe him or burn him to ash. It felt that way, sometimes, with Guinever. She (and Arthur, he now knows) had struck him like a bolt, set him ablaze such that he would do anything, would try anything, would smash himself to pieces if she asked. It felt like that was how love was, even though there was nearly always pain right alongside the heat.
It isn't like that with Susan, and that's a curious thing. But it's also so lovely, so good, that he refuses to question it. And if he doesn't speak of it to her for a little while longer, that's well. She knows enough. He doesn't need to say anything, just now.
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What he feels for her does not overwhelm him, does not frighten him -- the only surprise is that it feels so natural, a blaze that gives warmth and comfort, not a thing that will singe him or burn him to ash. It felt that way, sometimes, with Guinever. She (and Arthur, he now knows) had struck him like a bolt, set him ablaze such that he would do anything, would try anything, would smash himself to pieces if she asked. It felt like that was how love was, even though there was nearly always pain right alongside the heat.
It isn't like that with Susan, and that's a curious thing. But it's also so lovely, so good, that he refuses to question it. And if he doesn't speak of it to her for a little while longer, that's well. She knows enough. He doesn't need to say anything, just now.