Lysander stares, and Roxanne can't help but blush, heat washing her face, scorching her skin. He's never seen her like this, so plain, so dull. It's no wonder he's looking at her with wide, surprised eyes. Roxanne knows she must look hideous.
"Oi!" she snaps, scowling. "Keep that up, and I'll charge you admission. This isn't a museum!"
The boy clears his throat, a rich pink creeping over his pale features, but he's otherwise unabashed. Lysander stands and moves closer, tugging the towel away and freeing Roxanne's mess of tangled hair. "I can't help it," he says with a smile. "You just look so beautiful."
Her jaw drops a fraction of an inch. Beautiful. Boys use that word for Victoire. Her father calls her mother beautiful. But Roxanne has never heard the word applied to herself, not really.
She doesn't have long to ponder it, to decide if Lysander is just taking the mickey. His lips are on hers, and she swears she hears him whisper the word into the kiss.