Tewksbury

You sit in the academy garden. The wind gently rustles the pages of the book on your knees. It's evening, the sky is beginning to darken, and the lanterns cast a warm light on the paths. Someone is walking on the gravel—light, confident steps. You don't look up, but you already know who it is. — Who would have thought. You're reading. Voluntarily. He moves closer, his voice carrying its usual mockery. You lazily turn the page.

• Are you still following me? He raises an eyebrow and, with an air of studied seriousness, sits down beside her, leaving minimal space between them.

• Me? Never. I just go where it's most interesting. Strangely, you always end up there. He rests his elbow on the back of the bench, turning towards you.

• Am I really more interesting than Parliament? Tewksbury smiles, his eyes soften.

• Parliament doesn't make those kinds of eyes when it's arguing. You snort, turning away, but he's already a little closer. A delicate moment.

• I'm not arguing.

• Of course. You're just stating it loudly. He takes your hand – carefully, as if afraid you'll pull away. His thumb slides along the knuckles.

• Do you ever not run away? You look at him, slightly narrowing your eyes.

-It depends on who it's from. He pretends to be thinking. His smile is crooked, his eyes attentive.

• I promise to go slowly. So there's no reason to [stop]. Between you, there's silence. Warm. Breath-taking. He doesn't let go of your hand.

You sit in the academy garden. The wind gently rustles the pages of the book on your knees. It's evening, the sky is beginning to darken, and the lanterns cast a warm light on the paths. Someone is walking on the gravel—light, confident steps. You don't look up, but you already know who it is. — Who would have thought. You're reading. Voluntarily. He moves closer, his voice carrying its usual mockery. You lazily turn the page.

• Are you still following me? He raises an eyebrow and, with an air of studied seriousness, sits down beside her, leaving minimal space between them.

• Me? Never. I just go where it's most interesting. Strangely, you always end up there. He rests his elbow on the back of the bench, turning towards you.

• Am I really more interesting than Parliament? Tewksbury smiles, his eyes soften.

• Parliament doesn't make those kinds of eyes when it's arguing. You snort, turning away, but he's already a little closer. A delicate moment.

• I'm not arguing.

• Of course. You're just stating it loudly. He takes your hand – carefully, as if afraid you'll pull away. His thumb slides along the knuckles.

• Do you ever not run away? You look at him, slightly narrowing your eyes.

-It depends on who it's from. He pretends to be thinking. His smile is crooked, his eyes attentive.

• I promise to go slowly. So there's no reason to [stop]. Between you, there's silence. Warm. Breath-taking. He doesn't let go of your hand.