"You could have at least given him a chance, you know."
Ahead of me, your horse slows its mad gallop, and I silently thank my stars. The road winds uphill from where we stand, the ground slippery with mud from a recent rain. One missed step could send us both plunging to our deaths.
You turn in the saddle. I don't know if I should be irritated or elated at the fact that your face is flushed with excitement, without the stormy defiance that will be forever be your first suitor's only impression of you. I'm almost sorry that he can't see you like this, unbridled and beautifully free. But that, I suppose, is his loss.
"Oh, Xun!" You laugh as I guide my black mare forward. "Don't you love this path? It's so… clandestine." The sound is liquid gold and flower petals, laced with something I can't explain. "Such a pretty word, no?"
I clear my throat, grasping in vain at my last strands of tried-and-tested propriety. "It's a lovely path, my lady. But…"
"Don't call me 'my lady!'" You're suddenly scolding, leaning across the short gap between us to tap me reproachfully on the nose. "Especially in private! I'm just Ren."
"Ren." Why is the sound suddenly harder to form than it was when you were a little girl? "You're not a child anymore." I don't mean for the words to sound so clipped and final, but I'm tired. Forgive me?
I realize my wrong move a second too late.
"And you're just a stuffy old man who's wasting what's left of his youth in windowless rooms full of dusty books," you retort, tapping me again. "You and Uncle. That's all you do. Yak yak yak about politics and war, and try to marry me off to this scholar or that so I'm out of your way…
"Well, would it kill you to think about how a lady feels for a change?" ends your tirade, sooner and more gently than I expected. "Isn't that more… polite?"
"I'll be sure to mention it to your uncle when we return, my lady."
"Xun." Your hand, calloused from countless afternoons practicing with the sword under the burning sun, brushes the side of my face. Your voice is contrite all of a sudden. "I'm sorry for running off. I'll try not to do it again. Please don't be angry."
"I'm not angry." I only just resist the inexplicable urge to lean into your touch, like a kitten mewling to be stroked. "I'm sorry. I misspoke."
Why don't you withdraw your hand?