The question hangs between us. Why did I, a being of shadow and hunger, remember something so purely about connection?
"I suppose I hoped that someday I'd understand it."
She sets down her glass. Stands. For a moment I think she's leaving. Instead, she moves to my chair, stands directly in front of me. Close enough that I feel her warmth.
"May I?" She gestures to my lap.
I nod, not trusting the sounds I might make.
She settles across my thighs. Her weight is slight but grounding. My form solidifies completely at the contact, more real than I've been in days. Her hands rest on my shoulders. I feel each finger individually, ten points of heat through shadow fabric.
"Do you understand it now?" she asks. "Love?"
"I'm beginning to."
She touches my face, tracing the sharp angles that never quite settled into fully human. Her thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I didn't expect you to have gentle stories. Sweet ones. Funny ones."
"What did you expect?"
"Blood. Horror. The kinds of stories monsters tell."
"I have those too."
"But that's not all you are."
"No?"
She leans closer. "No," she says. "You're someone who buried a tiny creature in an eternal garden. Who saved wine from dying worlds. Who remembers beauty even though you're made of void."
"Yorika."
"Tomorrow we might die."
"Yes."
"Tonight we're here."
"Yes."
"I want to know what it feels like," she says, her fingers threading through my hair, pulling slightly, "to choose you. Not the bond choosing. Not necessity. Me."
I search her expression, finding determination mixed with something softer. Want. Real want. "You're certain?"
"I've never been more certain of anything."
She kisses me. Not the desperate clash of our previous encounters, but something deliberate. Exploratory. Her lips are soft against mine, tasting of musical wine and choice.
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound against my mouth. Satisfaction. Relief. Desire. The kiss deepens. Her tongue traces my lower lip. I open for her, let her explore, let her lead.
My shadows respond without conscious thought. Tendrils manifest to cradle her, worship her, hold her carefully. Because she is precious. This woman who came to kill me, who saved me instead, who asks for my stories and laughs at the absurd ones.
She shifts in my lap, pressing closer. I groan against her mouth. The bond sings between us, incomplete but eager, ready to seal permanently.
"Bed," she whispers against my lips.
I stand, lifting her easily. She wraps her legs around my waist, continues kissing me as I carry her to the bed. Her mouth moves to my throat, teeth grazing shadow-flesh that solidifies under her touch.
I lay her down carefully, ready to pull back if she changes her mind.
