[Spin it into a story. Paint it over with metaphors to make it more appealing to taste. There's no more hesitation in Hans's eyes. There's his nervousness, yes, but isn't that the case with every first time? He keeps his head up, doesn't allow himself to look away from those golden eyes, bright as the sun.]
Sometimes, when we part, I like to imagine that you come back to carry me away instead. It's always in the dead of the night. [He glances away in spite of his resolution not to.] You take me to your home or your boat, and you see the miserable state I'm in and take pity upon me.
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Sometimes, when we part, I like to imagine that you come back to carry me away instead. It's always in the dead of the night. [He glances away in spite of his resolution not to.] You take me to your home or your boat, and you see the miserable state I'm in and take pity upon me.
[Don't look away.]
You help me with your hands.
[... Hans snorts.]
Listen to me, I can barely talk about it.