"I'll keep throwing," he said. "Aim improved, I promise."
"That sounds exhausting."
"Worth the fatigue."
They stood a heartbeat too long by the door, close enough that he could count the cinnamon freckles of flour along her cheek, close enough that the fire's warmth leaned around them like a benediction. Outside, snow began again, the light, quiet kind that erases old footprints and invites new ones.
"Tomorrow night," Marianne said, her voice quieter now, as though the thought itself carried weight. "The bonfire. Will you really come?"
"If you want me there," Alaric replied.
"The whole village will be there," she reminded him, as though to offer an excuse should he change his mind.
"That’s not what I asked."
The words lingered, warm and uncertain, like breath fogging glass. She hesitated—he could see her wrestling with herself, the cautious logic that always guarded her heart doing battle with something softer. At last she said, barely above a whisper, "Yes. I want you there."
"Then I’ll be there."
"Good."
"Good," he echoed, though neither moved, and neither seemed entirely certain what they had agreed to.
"Marianne..." he began, his voice rougher than intended.
"Don’t," she said softly, and that single word stopped him cold. "Not yet. Maybe not ever. But definitely not yet."
Her gaze didn’t waver. There was no anger in it now; only exhaustion, a wary tenderness, and perhaps the faintest spark of something that might one day be forgiveness.
"When will you know?" he asked quietly.
"When it happens," she said. "If it happens."
"That’s vague."
"That’s honest."
"I prefer specific timelines," he said, trying for lightness, though his tone betrayed the hope beneath it.
"And I prefer men who don’t lie about their entire identity," she countered, "yet here we are."
He winced, but nodded. "Fair point."
"I’m full of fair points."
"Among other things."
Her brows lifted. "Such as?"
"Flour," he said, almost smiling. "You’re full of flour. It’s everywhere—your hands, your sleeves, your hair. How do you manage that while wearing a cap?"
"It’s a talent," she said, straight-faced.
"An impressive one."
She smiled then and it was devastating in its quiet sincerity. The kind of smile that made his chest ache, that spoke of life and warmth and all the ordinary, beautiful things he’d forgotten how to want.
"Go home," she said after a moment, her voice gentler. "Your hands need rest, and I need to think."
