"Like I finally put down something I've been carrying for years. Like I can rest." She presses her hand to my chest, over where my heart would beat. "Like home."
"That is because this is home. You made it so."
"We made it so." She rises on her toes to kiss me. "Together."
The kiss deepens, and for a moment I consider abandoning the ruined eggs entirely and taking her back to the floor. Or the table. Or any of the other surfaces I have been cataloging for this purpose.
But her stomach growls audibly, and she breaks the kiss with a laugh.
"Food first," she says. "Then... other things."
"Other things?"
"I have plans for you." Her grin is wicked. "Many plans."
"I find myself intrigued by these plans."
"Good." She turns back to the stove, scraping the burnt eggs onto a plate. "Now eat your aggressive browning and let me think about what surfaces we haven't christened yet."
"The dining table."
"Obviously."
"The library desk."
"Too many books in the way."
"The greenhouse."
She pauses. "The greenhouse has potential."
"I thought so."
We eat breakfast together at the kitchen table, her legs tangled with mine, the bond humming warm between us. Through the windows, I can see the snow has stopped, leaving the world blanketed in white. The solstice is over. The longest night has passed.
And we are still here.
Together.
Whole.
Later, we will clean the house. We will check on the village, see how the other bonds fared through the night. We will face whatever challenges come with being publicly, openly partnered instead of master and familiar.
But that is later.
Right now, there is only this: burnt eggs and bad coffee and the woman I love sitting across from me, making plans for greenhouse activities that are entirely inappropriate and absolutely perfect.
For two hundred years, I was hollow.
She filled me up.
For two hundred years, I was a weapon.
She made me human again.
For two hundred years, I forgot how to want.
She taught me to want everything.
