"But not yet."
"No. Not yet."
The fire burns low. The snow falls soft. And we hold each other through the longest night, bound not by magic or compulsion but by something far stronger.
Choice.
Love.
Home.
I wake to pale morning light and the smell of something burning.
For a moment, I am disoriented. The rug beneath me. The chill in the air. The dead fire.
Then I hear the sizzling and the soft curse from the kitchen, and I smile.
She is up. She is cooking. She is burning something.
Some things never change.
I find my trousers and pull them on, padding barefoot toward the kitchen. She stands at the stove in nothing but my shirt from last night, her hair a wild tangle, a spatula in one hand and a look of extreme concentration on her face.
"The eggs are supposed to be scrambled," she mutters to the pan. "Not... whatever this is."
"Charred?"
She spins, nearly dropping the spatula. "You're awake."
"I smelled smoke."
"It's not smoke. It's... aggressive browning." She turns back to the stove, scraping at the pan. "I was trying to make you breakfast."
"I don't require breakfast."
"I know. But I wanted to. After last night, I wanted to do something for you." She sighs at the ruined eggs. "I appear to be better at magic food than regular food."
I cross to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She leans back into me immediately, and through the bond I feel her happiness. Her peace. Her lingering wonder at the golden warmth humming between us.
"The eggs are perfect," I tell her.
"They're burnt."
"They were made with intention. That makes them perfect." I press a kiss to her neck. "Also, I have tasted far worse in two centuries of existence."
"That's not the compliment you think it is."
"It is the highest compliment. I have eaten military rations from three different wars. Your burnt eggs are a significant improvement."
She laughs, turning in my arms to face me. Her eyes are bright, her smile wide, and she looks utterly, completely happy.
"How do you feel?" she asks. "The bond, I mean. Does it feel different?"
"Yes." I consider how to describe it. "It feels like... breathing. Like something I do not have to think about or maintain or work for. It simply exists. Part of me."
"Equal," she says softly.
"Equal." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "How does it feel to you?"
