AN: Narqueen, you'll know what this is. Happy (late) birthday!

She wore a dress, silk and sleek, something of the likes she'd never owned. Her hands rested lightly on the heavy linen table cloth draped smoothly over the table between them, squared beneath her heightened shoulders; he always demanded the best posture of her, which reminded her of the cross Russian woman who taught her ballet class as a child.

He reached across the table to slip his fingers between hers. "Did you enjoy dinner, my dear Sango?"

She nodded, "I did. Thank you."

"Well then," he said, a glimmer in his eyes. "Smile, Sango."

Crush the fingers in your hand. The corner of her lips turned up, pulling the flesh away to reveal a coerced gesture. Stop it. Hurt him. Leave.

The unadulterated grin he returned curdled the dinner sitting heavily in her stomach, and he tucked a loose strand of her hair away from her face. "Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

She shook her head, "No, Naraku. It wasn't."

"Good," he laughed, reminding her both of a knife and a coating of grime. "I love you, Sango."

"I love you too, Naraku," she replied. Liar.

She took a breath and looked down at her lap.

No, you're not.