You sat perfectly straight in the pew, hands folded neatly in your lap, doing your best to focus on the sermon instead of the familiar prickle you felt at the back of your neck.

He was behind you. You didn’t even have to look. You could always tell when it was his gaze on you.

Aemond always managed to find a reason to sit in the row just after yours when the boys’ school was invited to Sunday Mass. Technically, the arrangement was supposed to be random, but with him, it never was.

Then, just as the priest paused for a blessing—tug.

The end of your braid had been pulled. Not hard—just enough to make your heart skip and your breath catch.

You turned your head a fraction, just enough to glance over your shoulder. Eyeing him with suspicion.

Aemond looked perfectly composed. Sitting straight. Hands folded. Eyes on the altar. As if he hadn’t just done it. However, the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching faintly with amusement.

When Mass ended, you lingered longer than you meant to. Letting the teachers and students despise before heading down one of the quieter paths in the school grounds.

You didn't even have to look back to see if he was following—you could hear his steps crunching against the gravel behind you, mixing with the ring of the chapel bells.

He caught up to you just past the courtyard arch, his tone casual, too casual. “Didn’t know you’d jump so easily during mass, darling,” he said, one hand tucked into his blazer pocket as the other one draped around you.