He is here. This is real – or real enough, at least, the crush of his arms around her so tight she’s breathless, their edges blurring together where they refuse to let go. Electra thinks she will never let go, will cling to him forever, will turn to stone with him, or tangled trees. She thinks the bards will write songs about how love transformed them, so they would never again suffer apart.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she jokes through her tears, her mouth deciding between an effervescent smile and a grimace as he sets her down and she chokes back sobs. His own cheeks are streaked wet – she dabs at the moisture gathered at the corner of his lips with trembling fingers, too awestruck to say more. The rasp of his callouses across her skin sends shockwaves through her. She has imagined him constantly, in every possible incarnation, but could never have dreamed of how the real Jack would feel. She could never have imagined the soft press of his lips slow-dancing across her face, and the way it would make her so dizzy and weak she thinks she might die on the spot. Die, and be happy.

And that is before he carries her away.

She laughs as he lifts her, musical and sunshine-bright, a smile finally overtaking all its challengers. It is a transformative happiness, unlike anything she has ever felt. Has joy ever been so pure; so unassailable? She can feel it radiating from her with all the force of her relief, of her years of longing, of her heretical adoration. For her Jack has replaced all gods; she can worship no one beside him. Yet here he is, lifting her up as an idol, carrying her high.

It is like a victory march. Like the end of a siege, or a plague.

Her smile softens. Even the breeze seems to hold its breath, shade overtaking sunlight in this copse of tactful trees that is to be their secret place; a fairy bower for their fairytale. They are far from the castle gardens, somehow – orchids drip from oak boughs in this impossible place; tuberose bursts between hemlock roots. He lowers her, slow and reverent. Her feet touch down so gently they make no sound. The sound she makes, when he kisses her, is hushed as prayer.

She has never imagined being kissed like this. Could never – she has no reference for it. Nobody from her homeworld would have dared to say her name so desperately, to possess her with word and touch. She hooks her ankles around his waist, one hand twisted hard into his hair and artlessly returns his kiss, fear melting away into frantic desperation. Into freedom. It leaves her gasping and aching and raw with need, head thrown back as he laves her throat with promises, with teeth.

“Then don’t. Don’t leave me,” Electra begs helplessly, hopelessly, the tone as foreign on her lips as his language had been, so long ago. But he does, in a way – unlatches her legs and sets her down, as if remembering that this must be a dream, real as it may appear. It is an impossible meeting, in an impossible place, and their love has always existed within liminal time. Borrowed from an empty future.

His apologies embarrass her, make her avert her eyes. Unshed tears gather and glitter in the ethereal light.

How long has it been?

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispers, warring with bitterness. Her hands are fisted in his shirt, aware of the coarseness of the weave, the sense of his strength and sturdiness beneath. “An eternity. I have waited a thousand years for this. For you.” She lifts her eyes to him, their expression piercing, pleading, welling up with love for him. “I would wait forever. But if this is all we have…”

For a long breath, she lets the statement hang, echoing in the space between them. The silence of this in-between place makes everything feel close. He is so close, she can feel his every exhalation on her lips, can see the pulse fluttering in his neck. Her hands release their death-grip on his shirt, flattening against his chest. Then they drift, her touch featherlight, to pull his shirt free from beneath his belt.

“Please.” Her voice is barely a breath. Her eyes hold his. Her shaking fingers trace the placard of his buttons, pulling them apart one by one. When his shirt falls open, she splays her hands across the tense muscles of his abdomen, as gently as if he might break. Her nails graze his skin as they lower. She has to look, when she fumbles with his belt. The rasp of leather, the clink of metal, are deafeningly loud; louder even than her heart.

It is a reversal; she could strip him bare, and still be clothed completely. For a moment she considers it, considers him, taking in the incredible vision of his body, rosy and alive. Then she reaches up to pull him down to her, kissing him hard, lashes fluttering shut with her swallowed moan. His heart races hers beneath her hand. She arches her back, to be nearer to him, to bring their hearts together. To beg him to hold her.

“Please. I love you.”