Chapter Text
He doesn't mean to; he really doesn't, it sort of happens to be there and he can't really help himself.
Isabella never really catches him too, and Galavant thanks whatever forces of the universe for that because he's sure his head wouldn't be glued to his neck if she did.
It's just that he can't help himself. The necklines of her dresses are just so… low, do all the women in Valencia dress like that or is it a royal thing...?
He's pretty sure it's an Isabella thing.
They are traveling by the river and more often than not she's down there, washing up her clothes and he doesn't mean to but the rise and fall of her low neckline just... beckons him, and he finds himself just... noticing; noticing the thin layer of sweat covering her bosom, the way she chews on her bottom lip when she's dealing with a heavy piece of cloth or how she frowns when there's not enough soap or how she gasps, almost helplessly, for Sid to fix that and--
The heavy thud up against his chest leaves no room for interpretation.
"I'm not you mother, I'm not your maid, and I am most certainly not your wife", she blurts out before him, arms crossed in front of her right before letting them fall to her sides, when she turns around in the opposite direction and starts to walk away. "Clean up your own underwear".
And he will; but not before admiring the way her hips sway just a little too much when she's angry and he can't help the pang in his chest when he thinks that once they reach Valencia, he will no longer be able to witness that.