Owen Moreland's eyes, slightly drooping, still clasped Amelia Clarke's waist. The light in his eyes was deep and sticky, serious and earnest yet tinged with a subtle fierceness, enigmatic to anyone who couldn't understand.
He looked at Amelia Clarke so faintly, as if the question she had asked was inconceivable.
Slowly, Amelia retracted her hand from his cheek, and the smile on her face quietly faded away.
Perhaps men don't like when women cling to them, persistently asking if you love me or not.
Amelia lifted her hand to brush away the stray strands of hair by her ear, her wrist so white and slender it seemed it could snap with a gentle bend.
She suppressed the disappointment that welled up in her heart, and with a faint smile, she changed the subject, "For what you did tonight, thank you—"
Before she could finish, the hands at his waist suddenly tightened, and the steady force pushed her into a firm yet warm embrace.