She knew that he was watching her. She knew he always did. The pervert probably had every inch of her body memorized. She didn't mind. It was a good feeling, having him there. On more than one occasion she had done more than necessary in her bathing just because she could feel his eyes on her. She found an odd joy in teasing him. And she could feel his heat, and she thrived on it. Occasionally she would pause, and look up into the sky, her body questioning.

He could hear the unspoken words and he screamed his answer back with a ruffle in the bushes.

No don't stop.

She grinned, like always, and bent over, to wash her hair, but really meaning to give him an eyeful. She could only imagine the way his hands itched to be on her, grabbing, petting, stroking...what more could he ask for but something tangible in their 'relationship'? He could watch her when she bathed, and he could make the occasional grope or stroke, but anything more was over their undrawn line. So she tortured him. Giving him more than any guy could ever want, but really giving him nothing at all.

I want more.

And one couldn't argue that it's all he wanted. He wanted to claim her. Make her his and fill her as she always left him feeling half empty.

This is not to say he didn't do his fair share of teasing. He constantly was with other women, without being with them, giving her no real reason to complain, for what was it, but mere flirting with some girl he'd never see again, and a technically single man? He was after all, technically single. He loved her, yes, and in his mind, he was hers, and her mind she was his. That set no rules for the real world.

She learned not to take it to heart. She'd still react the same, but he could see the boredom in her eyes of keeping up their charade. He didn't care for the other girls, that was true. It was nothing special.

And she'd say this every time she went to pry him off some village maiden. She'd whisper it at the top of her lungs, trying to pretend it was true, while some part of her knew it really was.

This isn't love.

It could be compared to a dance. The movements set and beautiful, while complicated and confusing. Always three steps away from each other, but still having that tension in the air. That static. Chemistry, if you will. That sexual tension static chemistry. It was there, and it was apparent, if anything. It was. People would roll their eyes at their antics, because it was obvious. Their constant dance was now nothing but a ritual, and the method to the madness was known to their constant comrades.

Strangers, however, didn't understand, and they'd always see it as a fight, a struggle. They'd look to each other and whisper.

This is war.