Could his fire magic handle a kiss?
Stars above. Just because they’re having a moment doesn’t mean he wants to kiss her.
Will he ever be able to kiss her? And what about...the rest? Not that one moment in their heartlanding means she’s ready to crawl into his bed with that in mind—or that he wants her to.
But someday? Maybe? He’s obviously attracted to her. He practically confessed as much on the train.
“It’s my turn to ask what you’re thinking,” Cerian says softly, almost hesitantly, as if the question itself is a struggle for him to voice. The fact that he’s trying—that he cares enough to force the words out—warms her from the inside all over again.
She can’t really tell him what she was thinking, though. Can she?
When she doesn’t respond, his eyes shutter. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have—”
“Your fire magic,” she blurts out.
For goodness’ sake. He’ll think she’s addled for sure if she keeps doing that.
“What about it?” His brows wrinkle, but his eyes are more open again.
“Well...we’re married, and...”
Stars above. She should have talked about the snow.
He says nothing. He just stands there with his hands on her back, looking down into her eyes.
Oh, blast it all. There’s no taking it back now.
“How are we supposed to...bond...someday when you catch fire every time you look at me?”
He stiffens.
“Not right now,” she hurries to add. “Just...someday. In the distant future. Far from now.” A nervous laugh escapes her lips. “You know, we probably don’t need to talk about this right now. Or ever. Look, it’s still snowing. We should build that snowman.”
She hazards a glance up, and he stares down at her.
“Well. I’m mortified now,” she mutters, looking away again. “Though we agreed we could talk to each other, and this seems like a reasonable thing for married people to discuss. And you said wait. Not never. So I assumed—”
“I...don’t know.”
She snaps her eyes to him again. “What?”
He pulls away, but she reaches for his hands.
“Arisanna, no! Don’t touch—”
She gasps at the searing heat he’s exuding, and he curses in Elvish before stepping back and launching more fireballs into the sky. He shoves his hands into a snowdrift for a few seconds before hurrying back to her. Gently, he tugs off one of her mittens.
“I’m all right. You didn’t—” She hisses at the pain when he grazes her palm.
Maybe he did burn her. Just a little, though. It’s barely pink.
He removes the other mitten, too. It hurts less than the first one. You can’t even tell anything is wrong.
Cerian still hasn’t spoken. His glare has returned, though.
So much for their moment.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I shouldn’t have—”
