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Phara jitters as Garrit's hand interlaces with hers—cotton brushes over skin, a rather ticklish feeling; he readjusts his cap out of meticulous nature.
"Milady, please come this way," Garrit pleas, squeezing Phara's palm even tighter, yet ever so gently; her hand feels so awkwardly small against his now that they've grown up, a sole reminder that certain, innocuous habits feel so weird over the years. Phara sharply breathes as she muses only an awkward nod, and follows him in his steps like so.
The knight pulls the Princess through the busy crowd—a golden sunset glow tints their vantage a bright orange. It feels so hot and arid in spite of twilight; it perfectly disguises a heated red tint that flushes across her porcelain-toned cheeks.
Within the sunset's tint, Garrit looked so gallant—a lustrous warm shine glints from metallic trinklets across his uniform, the evening breeze was refreshing past the lingering heat, gently tossling his forest-green hair and golden wings about.
Phara coyly smiles and takes her feelings in stride, keeping up with Garrit's pace as she leans into his arm, her fringes brushing past his sleeves—wishing they could stay like this, if only a little longer.