one,” he sighed, touching her cheek lightly. “As you have felt a tie to me, so have I felt drawn to you. There is that in each of us that satisfies a need in the other, I think. I—care for you. I would gladly be a friend; more than friend, if you choose.”
“But I’m old enough to be your mother!”
“Ah, lady,” he smiled, his eyes old in his young face, “What are years? Illusion. Do each of us not know the folly of illusion?” And he cupped one hand gently beneath her cheek to touch his lips to hers. As her mouth opened beneath his, she was amazed at the stirring of passion—it was impossible, but it was plainly there, despite years, wounds, and weariness. Maybe—maybe there was something to this