( At least propriety stops the urge she wanted to tug at. To lean into the salt smelling boy, to bury her face against his neck. To mumble softly that she misses her mothers, her father. That that wave after wave is the closest she could feel to them even when so far apart.
But she does neither. Shaking her head to send little curls tumbling from her head like springs bouncing. )
no subject
But she does neither. Shaking her head to send little curls tumbling from her head like springs bouncing. )
That is not for me, it is sin.