There is nothing left to stop them. There are no secret desires. There is no war. There is no distance, no scheming, no fear, no enemy that might use their affection against them. Even their invented obstacles have fallen away.
It feels like moving through water, time stretched out and slow.
His smile slips. Her own is long gone, replaced by the intensity of the moment, the heat in her eyes as she watches him return to her, taking in every micro-expression. Every breath. She is not playing a game; it shows on her face. But she is not the naive girl from years ago, either. She does not ask about tomorrow. She demands no promises.
Who can promise anything, who has seen what they have seen?
Her grip tightens on his coat, the pressure urging his approach, until he is close enough to kiss. His hands frame her face. She looks between his eyes and his mouth, lips parting on a breath, and then he is kissing her, and her eyes fall shut. If she opens them, she is sure she will wake up. And if this is a dream, she wants to live in it a while, not pretending they have tomorrow but knowing in her bones that they have this moment, that they have only ever had a moment. That a moment is all anyone can hold in their hands. And right now he is hers.
She splays her hand over his heart, reveling in the stutter of it beneath his shirt, and chases his lips when he pauses to breathe. Snatched breaths are all they are allowed in this moment of theirs, stolen from all the forces bent on keeping them apart. She cannot let him catch himself, not now that she has snared him – her hand slides up his chest to his neck, to his hair, tangling in it as she deepens the kiss. Her other hand snakes around his waist.
If this is all they have, she will make the most of it.
She pushes away from the window, pressing her chest against his chest, and walks them back until her hip hits the table strewn with squares of fabric and embroidery, now a forgotten pile. His kisses burn through her, urgent in the way only delayed gratification ever is, the weight of long-ignored desire bearing down on them. She is sinking, drowning. It is so sweet, it hurts. Nothing has ever hurt so much.
“Tris,” she whispers against his mouth, as if afraid to be overheard. As if afraid he will hear her, and all the words she layers beneath his name, the confessions, the longing, the ache of her heart. Her kisses soften, tender on his top lip, then the bottom, then the corners, each slow press like a signature.
Remember me, she thinks, when this is over.
She knows tomorrow is never promised, and will never come.
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