kissing cousins

She sometimes hates the idea that he grew up so sweet. Part of her remembers - and is really not ready to forget - him ten years ago, when he still thought he was invincible, and that people were supposed to fall at his feet.

It's that part of her that looks for some curl of casual cruelty in his gaze, for the pointed smirk that would reveal this for the joke it is – the evidence proving that the fine cracks that have cut away that wild arrogance are only temporary.

But James is kind, and careful, and edges gingerly around broken people with the concern of someone who has shattered and only slowly put back together.

He touches his hand to her face like she is precious and fragile and might vanish if he hurries, and what that part of Lucy hates most is that she can't just fix him with a kiss.