Neville kept his eyes level, that odd feeling filling his stomach; it was one he was familiar wit, one that he spent nights feeling for her as he lay alone in his bed. He knew what it was. He'd been able to identify it as longing, and love.
"I am not most men, Hannah. I think we've covered this ground before," and he leaned across to her, putting his hand on her arm, "I am utterly mad for you, and I'm not going to hide it. You are...well, I am bloody luck to find you."
He looked at her, the smile returning to his face, "You mustn't worry about any of this, unless you don't want to be mistaken as with me? I'd understand if that sort of embarrasses you."