“Ow, ow…” she murmurs, barely keeping the grin from her face. You know this isn’t a serious injury. Camellya herself knows this isn’t a serious injury. She’s sprawled across the ground, one hand pressed to her knee, the other dramatically outstretched. Her eyes are squeezed shut, lips twisted in a faint pout.

It’s not the first time she’s pulled a stunt like this, after all. It’s always the same — a simple trip, a slip, and then the world ends for her, just so she can end up right here. At your feet, vulnerable, waiting for you to lean in and offer her something. Something small, but cherished.

“I think…” she starts, eyes fluttering as her hand slowly falls away from her ‘injured’ knee, “I think I may not make it…” Her voice trails off, and there’s a teasing lilt to it. Camellya looks up at you, bottom lip just barely jutting out, and her brows knit together in an exaggerated expression of pain. “I’m afraid… I might need a kiss to feel better.”

There it is. That face she’s making just tells you she knows exactly how ridiculous she’s being, but also that she doesn’t care. Because this is her way of getting close to you, her way of asking for affection without having to say the words outright.