There was finality in the slow click of the door closing.
She could feel him move, even so far apart. It was as if there was a line drawn tight between her heart and him, tight as a violin string, humming with potential song. The nerves along her spine fizzed with anticipation as he neared. His words traveled straight down from her ears to her neck to her chest, filling her up with something she had craved for so long, for so long, and never named.
He’d missed her, too. She wondered if it was even a fraction of the way she’d missed him.
And then he wrapped his arms around her.
They fit together perfectly, of course. Thea remembered when she’d been taller than him, then equally tall, and then he’d surpassed her. Kept growing, while they were apart. She leaned back into him, struck by the breadth of his shoulders, the lean muscle of his chest and arms beneath that trim coat. It felt so good to be held by him, her exhale was nearly a sigh. She could live here, she thought, in a cage made of him. In a way, she’d been living there for years.
It was easier to meet his eyes this frankly in the window’s reflection than it ever was, with nothing to mitigate it. But his smile was just as potent, pure as the day they’d met, so familiar it made her heart ache. Where had he been, her Tristan? And how had he come back? In this moment he was not her King, not even her Prince, but only Tristan – the boy she’d loved before she really knew what love was. The one she couldn’t imagine ever not loving.
“I would like that,” she admitted. It felt impossible to withhold the truth, with his body so close, the rise and fall of his breathing pressed against her back. She was looking out the window, but the sunset beyond was out of focus, a blur behind his image. Was it beautiful? It was a thing she usually noticed; she was the type of woman who was always transfixed by the sky. But now it was impossible to say if it was yellow or red. Sunrise, she knew, would go entirely unremarked. “I assume Jay has other plans for you?”
Please, Gods, let him have other plans for you. And please, Gods, let him rot in a dungeon somewhere.
Her gaze fell to where his hands overlapped his elbows, and she wrapped one of hers over his, magic sparking at the touch, light scintillating over her skin like a sunset over water. It was hard to believe she could touch him like this. That nobody and nothing would stop her, not even her own thoughts. His power sang to her beneath her hand – both the fairy kind and the kind that was just him, the warmth of him, the magnetism. She could feel the earth far beneath their feet, and the roots of trees, and the idea that with a thought she could sink her hand right through his. Be him, for a moment. Share his space.
“Wild and green, like you,” she observed, half to herself. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles tenderly.
The knock was expected, but it still jarred. It was the kind of tentative rap that meant not to disturb – that, the muffled “Your Grace” through the heavy door, even the faint clink of the platters set just outside on a cart, sounded apologetic. Alethea’s cheeks heated. As far as his servants were concerned, she was a foregone conclusion, but somehow she couldn’t care. Let her be like other women, for once. Let her forget why this hadn’t already happened.
Tristan unlaced his arms, about to retrieve what had been left for them, when she turned. Reached for his lapel.
“Wait.” The word was barely a breath. He’d hardly moved away at all, was close enough she had to tilt her head back to see his face. For what? It was an unspoken question hanging between them, a shared thought, she was sure. Her throat clicked.
“I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”
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