"Don't you dare glance this way!" she demands in that high-pitched, nervous squeak that her voice becomes when she's vulnerable.
"I won't," he promises. Or so he says, but the sound of her clothes hitting the cold tile floor is almost more than he can bear. It takes all of his self-restraint to look forward.
"Don't you dare open the shower curtain!" she cries again, feeling slightly safer with that thin barrier in between them.
"I won't," he says again, and he curses his parents for raising him right. Again he holds himself back, trying his hardest not to look through the small gap their hands make where shower curtain meets wall.
"Don't you dare try anything while I'm sleeping!" she forbids, knowing she will get very little sleep the first few nights.
"I won't," he assures her, growing weary of this game. But he likes her too much, holds her in too-high regard to roll over and ravish her the way he wants to every night. He wants—no, needs her trust.
Because someday he will tell her how he feels, and someday he won't have to hear her say "don't you dare!" It's difficult now not to peek like he wants, not to kiss her like he wants, not to make love to her like he wants, but patience is a virtue, and his will be worth it when she wants him as much as he does her.