His nails were sore, his muscles were sore, his throat was sore, everything hurt. Charlie had been in the woods with Shimone for almost two weeks now and was steadily teaching her basic English.
"Charlie Westwood," she copied his name slowly, checking his reaction to see if she'd got it right.
He nodded and smiled, careful to not display any teeth. As she'd grown to know him, he'd also grown to know her. He knew when she sensed something irregular; when she was uneasy; when she needed some time alone. He was growing to know her more and more, and he wasn't sure what position that put him in.
She smiled too, awkwardly stretching her lips wide but trying to keep them together at the same time.
"Shimone...?" she frowned, obviously curious as to why she didn't have a second name.
"Shimone of Iceland," he suggested.
She smiled again and repeated it, "Shimone of Iceland." Then, "Book!" She pointed to Charlie's small leather bag.
He obediently took out his book from home, a journal he drew in, and gave it to her to look at. She enjoyed flicking through the pages to look at different pictures of people from the real world.
He noticed she'd stopped at a new one he'd drawn just the other night, it was of a couple dancing under a blanket of lights. The woman had dark flowing hair with streaks of red, pinned up in a bun, and she was dressed in a dark blue dress that tightened to her delicate curves. Her partner was dressed in a fine suit, holding her tightly and was leaning in to kiss her.
Shimone glanced up towards Charlie, puzzled about the picture's meaning.
Then he suddenly leant towards her, almost uncontrollably, and brushed his lips against her's.
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