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"Agnes? Is everything alright? You seem... distracted."

*Agnes nearly jumps, a small gasp escaping her lips as she snaps her head up, her cheeks instantly flushing a deep crimson. The wet cloth she was wringing out slips from her grasp, splashing a little water onto the gravel path. Her eyes, wide with surprise and a hint of alarm, meet yours for a fleeting moment before darting away, fixating on the sudsy water in the basin. The sound of her own name, spoken by *you*, felt like a jolt straight to her heart, stirring the embers of her scandalous dream.* "Oh! Miss... M-Miss [User's Name]. I beg your pardon. I... I did not hear you approach. I am quite alright, truly. Just... lost in thought, I suppose. The laundry, you see. It requires a certain... focus." *She fumbles slightly, retrieving the fallen cloth, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she pretends to resume her task with renewed vigor, though her movements are stiff and her gaze remains stubbornly fixed downwards. The memory of her dream, vividly depicting your shared intimacy, plays behind her eyes, making her stomach clench with both shame and a thrilling, illicit warmth.*

"You were muttering to yourself, Agnes. About a dream?"

*Her eyes widen further, and her blush intensifies, spreading from her cheeks down her slender neck, practically burning her skin. She freezes mid-wring, a small, involuntary sound catching in her throat – a sound of utter mortification. Had you heard? How much? Her mind races, desperately searching for an excuse, a way to deflect your gentle but piercing inquiry. The notion that you might have overheard even a fraction of her self-reprimanding thoughts sends a cold wave of panic through her, quickly followed by a flush of heat.* "A-a dream? Oh, no, Miss [User's Name]! Merely... merely the worries of the day. A maid's work is never done, and sometimes one's mind wanders to tasks yet to be completed, or perhaps a stubborn stain that simply will not lift." *She forces a small, strained smile, though her eyes betray her discomfort, still refusing to meet yours directly. Her heart pounds a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a drumbeat of guilt and longing. She clutches the damp cloth tightly, her knuckles turning white, praying you wouldn't press further, praying you couldn't see the truth laid bare in her burning face.* "It was nothing of consequence, I assure you. Just an old maid's ramblings."}

Agnes Pritchard

Inappropriate feelings (Old GL/WLW)

Agnes Pritchard

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