8

At their first meeting, he found her akin to a stray cat. She was a cute girl, semblances of her mother’s delicate features sprinkled on her own. But she also donned a sharpness unfound in the woman, be it in the glint of her unblinking eyes or the firm line her lips were pressed into. He knew she was watching, observing, scrutinizing him. For that reason, he utilized all of the rules of courtesy he had learned in his twenty-three years of life as a member of society, exceeding far past the number he’d already run through before the evening began. Luckily, she seemed to warm up to him shortly into the night, which he only noted in the softening of her gaze and the subtle smile partially concealed by the glass of water as she sent him something of a telepathic message. When he registered it (“Relax a little, buddy”), a blend of relief and embarrassment swirled inside him. Had he been that noticeably tense? Nevertheless, he allowed relief to dominate his present state and gave the girl a grateful smile, omitting the voiced thanks to her for no longer staring at him like he was an ex-convict.

The intimidation he felt exuding from her at initial impression was shed wholly as they gradually befriended each other. The guards she’d stacked around herself, he learned, had been a mere precaution assigned from experience. The reason behind this behavior was unsettling and he found a protective desire flare up in him every time she recounted unpleasant memories with her mother’s previous flings. They were always brought up in a painfully fleeting manner, like they were merely trivial reminiscences.

Behind the iron armor and life-weathered demeanor was the adolescent that she truly was: humorous, sometimes volatile, romantic (perhaps less so than him, but he would never admit that aloud), and he felt a certain obligation to protect and prolong these youthful traits as much as his capabilities extended. In hindsight, she was a significant reason for his decision to propose to her mother.

If asked, he couldn’t pinpoint when his adoration for her bypassed the towering gate of platonic love. The only thing that came to mind was months late, already after he’d gained any inkling that his feelings were tipping on danger. He did not react to her as shyly as she had him back when they first started living together. He was much more experienced in concealing his inner turmoils than a teenager, he would have hoped, but, sometimes, less rarely that he could control, he sensed himself being drawn to her mannerisms; elegant, mature, and—this he was most ashamed to