She was just as perfect as Kvothe remembered, delicate and beautiful in ways he had never been able to describe. Everything about her made him want to sing, and so he often did. He buried his face in her neck, overwhelmed with the kind of passion that only another musician could begin to understand or express as his limber hands felt their way around her back, her belly, reuniting himself with her elegant body. She was everything he had ever desired in his troubled life; a soothing balm, a continual presence. She had comforted him when he had suffered losses too painful to imagine, and in return he routinely bared his soul to her, gave everything that he had and everything that he was to her. Now, especially, he wanted to show her more than ever just how much she meant to him. As he wrapped his arms around her he realised that theirs was the kind of love that ran deeper than understanding, the kind that was sung and written about, the kind of dedication and hot-blooded desire that most people could only dream of. He kissed her lasciviously, no longer able to restrain himself in the face of her beauty. Even though his adoration was inexpressible he knew that she understood. How could she not? Their every waking moment was spent together- if not in passion then at least in proximity, and how his heart ached when she was out of his sight. He could never allow the two of them to be separated ever again.
Yet as his talented fingers caressed the silken curves of her body he realised that something was wrong.
"Bast," he whispered.
"Reshi?" enquired his student, who was sitting by the fireplace and patiently ignoring the goings-on behind his back.
Kvothe cleared his throat and tried again. "Can you fetch me a new lute string?"