The words clenched through his lips as a wave of hair breezed across her face. He pushed it back, solemnly, letting the air return it to its freedom before the action was repeated. He looked at her hands, chose not to take them, changed his mind, felt their soft encompass. Her eyes never left the same expression, not darting awkwardly, not gazing with the same that he gave to her. And he cried. With all guard gone from his placid face, with nothing but the truth left to fill through his tears. Though his drops were left to dry on her skin, she did nothing to brush them off, nothing to show they were there. Her lips were cracked, gasping for the moisture they determined. He longed to brush his against hers, but still now waited for the day when she would nod at his eyes. His hands still grasped hers, still held them in the warm grip. The eyes still dared not to dart, the skin still dripping with tears.
No cries sounded from his throat, tears stunting in their flow. He had nothing left to give. So with a swift movement, he reached, touched the knob, pressed without a pause. And so it was he never found out that she was a damsel in distress, waiting for a prince to wake her from her sleep.