But the truth was, I liked it far more.
You’re in trouble, Bassiano.
We stepped out of the printshop and into the hush of early evening. People bustled past as merchants closed up stalls, and children chased the fading light.
Beside me, Quinn was smiling. The kind of smile that tuggedbehind my ribs. A smear of ink sat below her cheekbone, stark against her pale skin.
“You, uh, have something there.”
Before I thought better of it, I reached out. My fingers held her jaw, soft and careful, and I used my thumb to sweep the smudge away. Her skin was warm, as if she’d been storing sunshine and magic beneath its surface.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
Only for a second.
But that second stretched—quiet, suspended, unbearably close. My hand still rested on her cheek. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t shy from my touch. And Saints, I didn’t want to move. I wanted to memorize the look on her face—peaceful, unguarded, like the whole world had gone silent and she was finally breathing without weight. I wanted to trace every line of her expression.
I wanted?—
I cleared my throat and jerked back. “Just ink,” I mumbled.
Her eyes opened slowly. She nodded, the faintest blush rising on her cheeks. “Thank you.”
I jammed my hands into my jacket pockets, like that would stop them from wanting to touch her again.
It wouldn’t.
Not even close.
Because the truth was—I liked her smile. I liked her voice. I liked the way she looked at the world like it might still surprise her, even after all this time.
And I wanted to touch her again.
Thistle’s voice cut through the quiet before I saw her. “There you are. Thought maybe you’d run off together and eloped without us.”
I turned to see her approaching, arms full of bundled supplies—bedrolls, oilskin packs, what looked suspiciously like a bag of sweet pear crisps poking from the top of one satchel. Vesperbalanced like a shadow on her shoulder, tail flicking with feline disdain. Branrir trailed behind, juggling a long map tube under one arm and a bundle of supplies under the other.
Vesper gave me a once-over and sighed theatrically. “You’re still brooding. I was hoping a shopping trip might cure you.”
“Guess your standards are too high,” I said, adjusting the pack of Quinn’s purchases on my shoulder.
“Or your emotional growth is too slow,” the cat replied, already preening.
Beside me, Quinn exhaled a soft laugh, but she didn’t meet my eyes.
Good. Because I wasn’t sure what mine would give away if she did. The blush from earlier lingered on her cheeks, the same way the ghost of her skin lingered on my fingertips. I could still feel the shape of her jaw, the warmth of her face. Still saw the way her lashes dipped low when she leaned into my hand without hesitation.
Suddenly, two weeks had never felt so short.
Branrir stepped forward, oblivious. “We’ve got enough supplies for a week on the road. Going to stash most of it back at the shop, then I suggest dinner. I passed an alehouse that doesn’t smell like boiled socks, which, frankly, is a rare find in this town.”
Thistle elbowed him. “That’s glowing praise, coming from you.”
“Accuracy is kindness,” he sniffed.
I glanced over at Quinn. She caught the look this time. Held it for a beat longer than necessary.
“Dinner sounds good,” she said.
