[ This is embarrassing, he thinks. Not once in his life has he ever heard the words "I like you" in the context of someone being sincere; not even from the people who birthed him, not even from the people who raised him.

He never wants to admit that chip on his shoulder, but it's there. Iona fills it in without a second thought, and the feeling suffocates him like a sweet vice; it makes him pause for a second to catch his breath.

If he didn't know better (he doesn't), he'd say he was nervous. ]

—Yes. In my professional opinion, this is very unhealthy.

[ With the hand that isn't twined with Iona's, he puts a palm to Iona's forehead. Facetious, he checks her temperature. ]

You're burning up, as well. You must have caught something— how tragic.

[ He leans even closer, and he's trying to hide his own half-flush by letting the setting sun light him from the back. ]

...It also seems highly contagious. [ He hums, before pressing his lips to hers. ]