Griffith runs his hand through the locks of your hair, his fingers getting tangled up in the curls, but he's gentle untangling the strands, careful.

He sighs, the words fail him, his eyes averting — he's pretending, faking it, you're not the one he wished to have laid on his lap, you're not the one whom he desires, you are but a distraction. The man looks down at you with that affectionate gaze, but there's only one person on his mind; Guts. And you know it. “Hm?” Griffith tilts his head to the side, a small smile on his lips. “Is everything okay?”