Pungent was the rose that he brushed under her nose, stroking the silken petals along her upper lip and watching her giggle against the flower, her eyes finally opening as he inhaled the sweet smell deeply and gazed at him.
It was a quiet moment for once, out in the field where no one could see them. No one could stop them.
She sighed against the flower and pushed his hand away, so it landed beside her, and he frowned as the scent of the rose faded but lingered.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered, though he knew. There was always a point during their secret trysts where one of them would sigh and push the other away as if the proximity was overwhelming.
“I’m going to miss you,” she said in a quiet voice, her eyes very wide and watering, sitting up from the crushed grass and leaning her head on her knee comfortingly. He looked back steadily and automatically smiled, though he understood the pain too well.
“We’ll meet tomorrow. Or perhaps the next day. We’ll see each other soon, Anna,” he insisted, his tone set and steely. She sighed again, looking out to her father’s distant barn and the light coloured flies dipped in the honey glow of the low sun, then she shook her head.
Her tone was just as steely. “That’s not good enough.”