Amalia
stop thinking so much
He drifts nearer, and the girl begins to raise a hand, fingers seeking his dimpled cheek, to catch his lips as they crash against her, hold him flush upon her skin. Lost in his eyes she smiles, unaware, unexpecting the sudden diversion until it is taken, her hand still half-raised in the air, a bemused expression on her slender face. This is another part of the dance, the pushing and bending and yearning and teasing to see who will be first to break.
With a heavy exhale Amalia grins, a little bittersweet by the absence of his touch, a little entertaind by his clever ploys. She watches him begin to dig through his prize, the other basket hooked on her fingers and tucked beneath the table's legs. His boyish curiosity and declaration of repayment entices another ringing laugh; still leaning on the table, she shakes her head. "And watch you get more flour in my floor than in your bread again?" Her dulcet tone is a gentle tease, a reminder of bright days and shared friends.
Pushing off the table, Amalia follows him toward the Spartan kitchen, a distracted smirk still pulling at her lips. "It's good we're cooking at your house today. The bakery couldn't handle another attack. And my house is... Well." She trails off, glancing sidelong at him, her bottom lip between her teeth. She does not often speak of her house, the old building which has been in there family for generations but now stands empty, dusty and dark. Lately, though, she's wondered about it, thought about what it might be like to once more have a home, instead of just a shop. Somewhere to live, but also to share, to keep her heart and show her friends, to host parties and bask in the smiles of those she loves.
Home is people more than place, after all.
you're breaking your own heart
