I glance at him, surprised. He's looking at his hands, folded on the table, and there's something vulnerable in his posture.
"She was brilliant," he continues. "Powerful. But she forgot... or maybe she never learned... that power without compassion is just cruelty masquerading strength."
"Did she ever..." I stop, not sure how to ask.
"Treat me kindly?" He looks up, meeting my eyes. "At first. When I was first bound, she was... different. Younger. Less hardened. But war changes people. Loss changes people. And eventually, I became just another tool in her arsenal. It was easier for her, I think. Easier not to see me as a person."
My throat tightens. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not your fault."
"But I'm an Ashwood. That makes it..."
"You're not her," he says firmly. "You've made that abundantly clear."
I pour the hot chocolate into two mugs, adding tiny marshmallows to mine because I'm nothing if not committed to the aesthetic. His I leave plain, but I've loaded it with warmth magic, comfort magic, everything I can pour into it.
I set his mug in front of him and take the chair across from him, wrapping my hands around my own mug. They are both white, basic ceramic, nothing like the mish-mash of mugs I have at home.
"Try it," I say.
He picks up the mug carefully, like it might bite him. Takes a cautious sip.
Then goes very, very still. A rigidity only vampires can achieve.
"Good?" I ask.
"It's..." He takes another sip, and I watch his face transform. The careful blankness cracks, and for just a moment, I see wonder. "I can feel your magic in it. The warmth. It's like..."
"Like what?"
"Like safety." He looks at me over the rim of the mug, and there's something raw in his expression. "I'd forgotten what that felt like."
The fire crackles in the stove. Outside, snow falls in thick, steady curtains, burying the world in white. Inside, the kitchen is warm and bright and smells like chocolate and home.
"We're going to figure this out," I say quietly. "The bonds, the weakening, all of it. And we're going to do it together. Not because you're bound to me, but because we're choosing to."
"Choosing to," he repeats, like he's trying out the words. Testing their weight.
"Every day," I promise. "Every single day, we choose."
He nods slowly, turning the mug in his hands. "I'll try. To remember how to choose. How to want things."
"That's all I'm asking."
We sit there in comfortable silence, drinking hot chocolate while the snow falls outside and the fire burns warm inside. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear the wind howling, but in here, we're sheltered. Protected. Together.
"Thank you. For this. For..." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the kitchen, the hot chocolate, the choice. "All of it."
"You're welcome." I smile at him over my mug. "Now drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold. I put a lot of good magic into that."
"I can feel it." He takes another sip, and I swear I see the ghost of a smile on his face. Barely a flash on those full lips. "It's very good magic."
"Kitchen magic," I correct. "The best kind."
"Yes," he agrees quietly. "I'm beginning to think it might be."
And sitting there in the warm kitchen, snow falling outside, hot chocolate warming us from the inside, I think maybe we might be okay.Hemight be okay, which is all I can ask for.
