I look up at him, and he's watching me with that same expression from the market. Like he's seeing something unexpected. Something that matters.
"It's just wassail," I say, suddenly shy.
"No. It's you." He adds the last of the apple slices to the pile. "Your magic. The way you care about things. The intention you put into everything."
"Even my chaos?"
"Especially your chaos." The corner of his mouth lifts—that almost-smile. "It's very determined chaos."
I laugh, adding the apples to the pot and stirring. The kitchen fills with the scents of cinnamon and apple and like winter festivals and warm fires. The magic settles, content, exactly right.
"There," I say, adjusting the heat. "Now it simmers for an hour, and then we'll have perfect wassail. Assuming I didn't mess it up."
"You followed the instructions."
"I did! Are you proud of me?"
"Deeply suspicious, but willing to be convinced."
I snort, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and realize there's something in it. I pull it out. A cinnamon stick.
"How did... " I look at the counter, where I've managed to scatter cinnamon across every available surface. "Oh."
"You have it in your hair," Cadeon observes.
"I noticed."
"And on your cheek."
"Also noticed."
"You're wearing more cinnamon than went into the pot."
"Are you mocking me?"
"I wouldn't dream of it."
But there's definitely amusement in his voice now, warmer than I've heard before. I reach up to brush the cinnamon out of my hair, which just makes it worse, sending a small cloud of spice into the air.
"Here." Cadeon reaches out, then freezes, hand halfway to my face.
We both go still.
His hand hovers in the air between us, fingers slightly extended. I can see the moment he realizes what he's done, the automatic gesture of helpfulness, of intimacy, something you do without thinking when you're comfortable with someone.
"Sorry," he says quickly, pulling back. "I shouldn't have..."
"It's okay." I step closer, closing the distance he's trying to create. "You can touch me, Cadeon. I'm not afraid of you."
"You should be."
"But I'm not." I take his hand, guiding it back up to my face. His fingers are cold against my cheek, gentle despite the strength I know is there. "See? Not afraid."
He brushes the cinnamon from my cheek with a touch so careful it makes my throat tighten. His hand lingers for just a moment, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone, and through the bond I feel something warm. Tentative. Almost like wonder.
Then he pulls away, stepping back quickly.
"The wassail," he says, voice rougher than before. "Should be stirred."
