#poor bebes

a snip snip snip of my current wip: 

What they shared was different, he thought, than what he used to imagine between lovers. Not that Sansa was his lover. As promised, he had not brought up his foolish, wine-induced confession again, and she had not acknowledged it either. But something had shifted between them, in the days since Jeyne and Theon’s wedding, and Ser Hardying’s return.

They were seldom alone, with the flurry of activity in anticipation of their departure, but when they were,  there was a stillness to each moment that Jon could not find elsewhere. Sansa would shed her lady’s armor, and with a quiet sigh, all her straight lines would turn to tired slopes and her face would slide into something Jon wouldn’t name as happiness, though there was a softness in her gaze that he was sure was his alone. Once, after a particularly tense exchange with Lord Glover, when the lords left his solar at last, she had slumped against Jon, resting her head upon his shoulder, and every fiber of his being had warmed over like he’d waded into the hot springs beneath their feet.