Doubts.
ii. Guinevere
He smiles, and the skin around his eyes crinkles, laughter lines ingrained there almost permanently. He likes to laugh, smile, like the continued existence of his world depends on his short the space between one moment of joy and the next is.
He always smiles genuinely, too, never without feeling it. Most people, you have to look at their eyes to know if they mean their smiles or if they're forcing it for appearance's sake, but not him. His are always real.
The rest of the time, though, you need to look carefully. It took years for her to learn to read him when he wasn't smiling, because he tends to keep everything but joy to himself. It's in the little things that she can seen how he really feels: the tiny, tight lines that form at the corners of his mouth; the way his eyes widen sometimes, almost imperceptibly; the way he tilts his head slightly to one side if the other; the brow that rises so little and yet so much. The pout, but no one ever tells him that's there.
It took years, but she knows him, knows him better than she knows herself.
She hates it.