You told him not to look at you like that.
Not when anyone could see.
Not when you were supposed to be acting.
He never listened.
Not when his fingers brushed yours too long beneath the dinner table.
Not when he pulled you against him at the masquerade like your ribs were a secret only he could keep.
Not when he kissed you in front of the guards, then kept kissing you long after they were gone.
And certainly not when he whispered—soft and ruined—"I don't know when I stopped pretending."
You never said it back.
But gods, you felt it.