If there was ever a moment he’d have liked to linger in, it was that one. Standing there with his hand on hers, their bodies close, her eyes locked with his, the trials and troubles of the last year seemed to melt away.

For the briefest of instances, his mind had no space for nightmares or memories, but only her. He threaded his fingers through hers, pressing closer, closer than decent, his resolve crumbling away. He had to kiss her. He had to.

The knock, when it came, was so sudden and so unexpected it made him jump. Swearing under his breath he glanced sideways at the man in the doorway and forced himself to peel himself away from her as innocuously as possible, given the circumstances, and Jay’s all-too knowing smirk.

Tristan took a steadying breath as he crossed to the doorway.

“What do you need Jay?” he asked, herding the scribe out into the corridor and closing the door half-way behind them. Despite his best efforts, his voice felt, sounded, thick, weighed down with the desires of the moment before. Jay fought to arrange his face into an expression of professional disinterest.

“We need you to sign these,” the scribe said, holding out the clipboard and a pen. Tristan grunted a response and took the pen, scrawling his signature across the bottom of the five pages offered to him.

“Is that all?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Jay nodded. “I’ll let you er…get back.”

Chance would be a fine thing. Tristan nods, dismissing him, wondering what Thea had been thinking since he’d left, how far she’d retreated. It had been unwise, indiscreet. He didn’t care, couldn’t care, he just needed…wanted her. And he didn’t want to think about it, he didn’t want to let the voices in his head to talk him out of it, he just wanted to act, to do, to leap into the unknown and damn the consequences.

Tris… Celidon now. His better half issuing a warning. The consequences would not just be his. These are the thoughts that guide him back through the door. He smiled at her, crossing back to the table, sparing his familiar a brief glance.

She could wait? Could she? Could he? Did he want to? No. He just wanted to feel.

“It’s all sorted,” he promised her, reaching out again. His hand brushes her elbow as he stops before her, face-to-face. With some reluctance he turns his head back to the fabric samples on the table, to the ones she’d indicated, their ultimate purpose fulfilled. Almost. Reminders of an unfulfilled promise of a moment, rapidly disappearing. He tightens his grip on her, easing her towards him with greater insistence, drawn to her gentle hands and blazing eyes. More combative, more daring than he remembered.

“Have dinner with me,” he manages, “just us. It’s been too long.”

His eyes linger on the gentle contours of her mouth. It was only a short journey for his hand from her elbow to her waist, the sharpness of her hip, firm through the light fabrics of her dress.

“Stay.”

you were never born to quit

TristaN

you gotta stand up, you weremade for this