[ In some ways, he is more like a father to her than a lover. He has yet to kiss her upon the lips, has yet to take her into his arms in the way a lover might. Everything that he does is for her protection and furtherment, from the time that he spends with Miss Margaery (still something of a thorn in the proverbial lion's paw though he does nothing to remove it) to the books that he brings back for her.
But still, when he holds her hand, his touch lingers longer than necessary, and there is something more than simple platonic love to his gaze when he looks at her. (She is a lighthouse in the fog, a single bright star in the night sky.)
It's with that same warmth that he looks at her now, reaching up to take off his glasses and beginning, almost absent-mindedly, to polish the lenses. ]
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But still, when he holds her hand, his touch lingers longer than necessary, and there is something more than simple platonic love to his gaze when he looks at her. (She is a lighthouse in the fog, a single bright star in the night sky.)
It's with that same warmth that he looks at her now, reaching up to take off his glasses and beginning, almost absent-mindedly, to polish the lenses. ]
It seems counterproductive, at the least.