[ She looks up, pulling her hair out of his hands at first in the process, but when she realizes what he's doing, she turns to look straight ahead and allow him to continue. The occasional brush of his fingers against the skin on the back of her neck is — it's something. No one has ever touched her there. She'd be dead if she had allowed it, before him.
That's true of a lot of this thing she shares with him. She should stop him, maybe. Pull away. But she can't bring herself to when she has been starved for this kind of contact for so long. The simple affection he shows her makes her want to cry with relief. ]
You don't have to do that.
[ She offers this stubbornly. ]
Carry the lines. You're tall enough; they'll be less awkward for you than me.
[ A good compromise, she thinks. This is not about underselling the strength that either of them possess. ]
a dress made of ice seems highly impractical, you can't deny it
That's true of a lot of this thing she shares with him. She should stop him, maybe. Pull away. But she can't bring herself to when she has been starved for this kind of contact for so long. The simple affection he shows her makes her want to cry with relief. ]
You don't have to do that.
[ She offers this stubbornly. ]
Carry the lines. You're tall enough; they'll be less awkward for you than me.
[ A good compromise, she thinks. This is not about underselling the strength that either of them possess. ]