No, you speak truly. Openly, he surely could not — and yet the Count de Fortemps's affection for you is the worst-kept secret in all of Ishgard, my dear.

[His hand rises, held sweetly captive in Haurchefant's. His breath catches again, and he does not seek to pull his fingers away. Too forward, he says, and something in the pit of Aymeric's stomach flutters, the aching void within him shivering at the prospect of, even for but a few fleeting moments, being filled.]

Be so forward as to make me forget my father, Haurchefant.

[He closes his eyes, lashes dark against his cheek.]

Let us both forget together, if you are willing.