Like he knows no one else ever has.
Like he doesn't care who sees.
And I let him.
My spine arcs.
My hands lift to his chest, not to push him away, but to anchor myself against the pull of him.
His suit is warm from the heat of him, the fabric textured under my fingers.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth hovers close, just a breath away, and I realize my knees are trembling.
The room is quiet.
No applause, but no whispers either.
Everyone saw it.
Everyone felt the shift.
We turn to face them together.
I feel his hand brush mine again, but he doesn't take it.
He lets it hang between us like a promise not yet called in.
The celebration spills into the great hall, whichemanates the inviting smells of roast lamb and fresh herbs, buttered bread and sugar-dark cake.
The candles burn low in their glass columns, and the ceiling echoes with music—old reels and fiddle tunes that wrap around the clink of glasses and the rise of laughter.
People dance.
People eat.
People watch.
Ruairà stays close.
He does not hover, but he is never far.
He lets the well-wishers come and go, shakes hands when needed, nods when necessary.
But his eyes return to me often, and each time, the curiosity in them makes me question my whole purpose.
What am I doing?
Where am I headed?
We dance once, late in the evening, when the fiddler starts a waltz and the crowd clears to make room.
He holds me like he means to remember it.
One hand at my waist, the other at the back of my neck, his fingers brushing the edge of my hair.
The weight of his touch is grounding, steady, and when I meet his gaze, I feel something crack and shift inside me.
A door I hadn't realized was locked starts to open.
