Her lips wore a bemused sort of smile as she witnessed his frantic movements, though she did grip the sides of the boat tightly the whole time he was rowing. She couldn’t help but be impressed with his athleticism; he hid it well under the bookishness, but he was very strong—anyone who could row that quickly had to be muscular. This was a relatively recent revelation in her life, as before they started… er, seeing each other, she had thought of him mostly as the little boy she had tea parties with in her garden. Of course, she had seen those muscles for herself (which was the shock that had made her look at him differently—he was very manly), and sometimes she couldn’t help but picture it. Usually at inopportune times… For the moment, though, she was free to admire him as much as she liked, and she watched the motion of his arms and shoulders as he pulled the oars through the water.

They had reached the shore before she knew it, and by the time she had stood up in the boat and smoothed her skirt, Brice was half way up the slope. “Uh… Brice?” she said, her arm held out for him to help her out of the boat. She could probably jump, but she didn’t trust her ability to land on the shore without pushing the boat out into the current—if she made it to shore and didn’t just fall into the river. “Brice!” she called. “A little help?” When he came running back for her, though, he did not take the arm she was holding out for him; he gripped her by the waist and lifted her. Dahlia did not care for being lifted—it was one thing to know that Brice had muscles, but it was another thing to trust that he wouldn’t drop her. Mostly, she didn’t like not having control of the situation, and if she was lifted, she had no control of her movement. If he wanted to drop her, he could. Plus, she was far too heavy for people to be lifting her. Dahlia made herself as stiff as possible, and she didn’t relax until her feet touched the ground again.

Though, she didn’t have much time to relax because he was suddenly clutching her to his body, moving his hands up her back and kissing her. That was better, and she responded enthusiastically to his kiss. So long as her feet stayed firmly on the ground, she was happy. And she was always happy kissing Brice. Her fingers slid up his chest—feeling the muscles she had been picturing a few moments earlier—and gripped his open collar. One finger slid inside to rest against his collarbone, and she leaned into him, somewhat thrilled at the fact that she was kissing him out in the open. For the past six months or so, she had kissed him many times, in many places, but they were all shadowy corners in a corridor, or a stairwell, or an empty classroom, or behind a tapestry. But they were in the middle of the countryside, with the sun shining down on them, and the river rushing along happily behind them, and she was incredibly content to be in his arms. “Oh, Brice,” she sighed, before willingly offering her lips to him again.

It took her a few steps to realize that they were walking, and when she did, she was relieved that he didn’t try to carry her again, especially since Brice was not watching where he was going, and he was not concentrating on anything but kissing her. She enjoyed the attention, but it would not have gone well with something as important as supporting her weight for more than a couple steps. Was it more than a couple of steps? She wasn’t sure—she had lost count, and her back was being pressed against a tree before she knew it. The rough bark was digging into her back through the thin fabric of her dress, but she didn’t care because he was swiping her hair back over her shoulder and pressing his mouth to her neck and shoulder and chest. Her breath was coming fast, and she could barely hear his worshipful compliments over the thunder of her heartbeat. The shoulders of her dress were definitely creeping outward, giving him a larger canvas of skin, and Dahlia was doing nothing to stop it. So much for not losing her virginity in a field.

“Merlin, I love you.” 

Well, that she heard. All of the rushing and pounding of breath and pulse that had been building steadily the moment before just stopped, and for a moment, neither of them moved. His mouth was still against her neck, and her calf was hooked around his, but their embrace had turned stiff with shock. He had said it. He had said it. She couldn’t believe it—and apparently, neither could he. Her own eyes were wide enough to match his as he pulled away from her, mumbling some panicked story about how he misspoke, but as he had told her so sweetly earlier, she was a clever girl, and she had no problems hearing.

“Olive juice, that’s what I said.”

“You did not,” she said, finding her tongue at last. “You said you love me. You… love me?” Oh, Merlin. This changed everything. And at the same time, it changed nothing. They had both already been betrothed when they started this relationship, and they had known it couldn’t be anything serious, that there would have to be an end, that they couldn’t fall in love. That hadn’t stopped them from getting close—too close—but they didn’t talk about the future or say things about love. They felt it—she knew she did, and had she allowed herself to really think about it, she would have known Brice did, too—but they didn’t talk about it. Until now. Now Brice said it out loud, and now it was real. Now they had to acknowledge that they had a problem. They were both betrothed to other people, and they would not only be expected to marry those people, but they’d be pretty much constantly in each others’ lives while married to the other people. How could she watch Brice marry her sister when she knew that Daisy would never love him the way she did? How could she watch them go through life together and have children and see Brice at family dinners and look at him across the table and know she could never kiss him again?

It was so incredibly sad and hopeless, and she couldn’t help it. Her eyes started to fill with tears, and she pressed her lips together to suppress her sobs. It didn’t work, and she wanted to fall on his shoulder and bury her face in his neck, but with the distance between them, she didn’t know if she should. He was still standing off away from her, probably regretting what he told her, and it was no wonder. She was sure she didn’t look loveable; she looked a mess, with her hair all mussed, her dress falling off her shoulder, and tears running down her face. And they were out in the middle of nowhere with no place for her to go and hide and cry to herself, so she took the only option that was available to her. She turned away from him to face the tree and brought up her hands to cover the red blotchiness of her face and wipe away the water leaking from her eyes. Maybe he would just go back to the boat and let her compose herself—as much as she could. Her hair and makeup, unfortunately, were ruined beyond repair.