He reached for her hand, but she recoiled, just a fraction.
“You can leave me here,” he said. “I deserve it. Or you can come home, and I’ll spend every day making it up to you. I won’t hide from you. I won’t shut you out or turn every kindness into abattle. I’ll let you in. I’ll let you see everything, even the parts that terrify me.”
Celine sat there for a long, unbearable minute. The only sound was the soft whistle of the wind through the cracked window.
“Is that all?” she asked, her voice so low that he almost missed it.
He nodded, too wrung out to speak.
She picked up the fallen book and cradled it to her chest. She looked so young that he could have sworn she was the girl he had once seen running through the orchards at Wylds, her hair loose and wild, her face bright with sun.
“You should have just told me,” she said, tears cutting silent tracks down her face. “I would have understood. I might have even forgiven you sooner.”
Rhys knelt, helpless, waiting for her verdict.
She stood up, the book hugged to her chest like armor. She did not reach for him, but she did not turn away.
He rose, awkward on one knee, and wiped his palms on his coat. He wanted to say something—anything—but found himself stranded between apology and hope.
She set the book down carefully and regarded him with a steadiness that made his heart lurch.
“Did you ever love me?” she asked.
He swallowed. “I tried not to, but I failed.”
Her breath caught, and for a moment, the only thing in the world was the two of them, suspended in that impossible space between ruin and repair.
She stepped forward, just enough that her skirts brushed his knees. “Don’t you dare stop trying,” she whispered.
He looked up at her, hope blooming in the ruins of his pride.
She reached out, her fingers trembling, and touched his jaw. He covered her hand with his own, and for the first time in years, he felt something shatter and reassemble inside him.
She let him hold her there, and the world began to spin again.
Celine pulled her hand back after a long moment, cradling it as though it had been burned. She stepped away from the window seat, away from him, and moved toward the fire.
Her movements were fluid, careful, as though the floor might shift beneath her at any moment.
Rhys watched her back, her tense shoulders, the way she pressed a knuckle to her mouth before she spoke.
“How can I believe you?”
The words landed with precision, more accusation than plea.
She set the book on the side table and took up a place by the hearth, where the flames made her hair glow and threw her shadow up the wall behind her. She stared into the fire, refusing to look at him.
“You weren’t there,” she said, the accusation colder than ice. “Not when I needed you. Not when I wanted you.” She turned a little, but kept her eyes fixed somewhere over his right shoulder. “You vanished into your misery and left me to fend for myself.”
He took a careful step toward her, then stopped, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
“I know,” he rasped. “I tried to explain, but it always came out wrong. Or not at all.”
She waited, her lips pressed tight, her silence a dare.
Rhys squared his shoulders, determined not to waste another chance.
“After the first time we kissed, I dreamed of him,” he revealed. “My father. He was waiting for me in the mausoleum. He sat on top of his own grave and poured himself a brandy and told me I’d ruined everything as usual. He said if I tried to be happy, I’d only make it worse for everyone else.” He swallowed. “He said if I let myself love you, it would kill us both.”
