Morning made liars of us. There was no lingering tenderness or affection. While I had not expected the day to begin with kisses or meaningful touch, the space between us had gone cold. There was only the clink of tack and the pretense of unchanged ground. Did he regret what had transpired?
Leaning into a turn as the path curved, I swallowed. “About last night…”
A low sound from him—acknowledgment with an edge of caution.
“Does this mean I have an open invitation to kiss you again?”
He huffed a laugh. “Does it? I mean…would you like it to?”
I drew a steadying breath. “Yes.”
The leather creaked as his hands gripped the reins.
When he did speak, I continued. “I am growing rather fond of you, Mav.”
He tensed behind me, and the invisible string between us went taut with a matching intensity.
My smile fled as doubt crept into the corners of my heart. “I thought last night meant we were of one mind.”
At last, he offered only, “Quinn…”
I faced the trail. My heart beat dull and low. “It is fine,” I dismissed. “Forget I spoke.”
“No, I?—”
I leaned forward, the smallest withdrawal from his warmth. The seating arrangement of sharing a horse did not allow much distance, but it was sufficient to make a point. Clarity was in a long list of things for which I was unwilling to beg. If last night were true for him, he would say so. If he wanted me, truly, he would not freeze upon hearing it named.
Silence pressed hard enough to bruise.
The trees parted into a wide, sloping grove washed in gold. The trail spilled into a meadow, untouched by time or trespass. An orchard sprang up, tree limbs bowed with apples, pears, and golden fruits I had no names for. Moss furred their trunks. Roots sprawled like sleeping beasts.
Vesper let out a low whistle from Thistle’s shoulder. “If this is a trap, it’s a very well-decorated and appealing one.”
Branrir slid down, eyes narrowed. “Doesn’t feel like a trap.”
“Doesn’t feel safe either,” Mav murmured.
I dismounted in silence—more stiffness than grace. Clover and wildflowers cushioned my boots. Bees bumbled through the air, and a stream whispered nearby.
“Water, shade, food,” Thistle said, tilting her head. “I say we risk it.”
“Define food,” Vesper sniffed, already springing into a pear tree. “I’m fairly certain that fuchsia berry winked.”
“It’s a dewberry,” Thistle called. “They do that.”
Mav gave a vehement shake of his head. “I don’t want anything I eat to look at me.”
I slid my eyes to his, voice lowering to a suggestive purr. “Are you certain?”
His jaw fell open, a bright red flush claiming his face. For someone so reluctant to voice his desires earlier, his reaction made them abundantly clear. What had changed since last night? We kissed. He held me in his arms. Yet, now he was cold and standoffish. Perhaps my feelings exceeded his, or in the light of day, he regretted his actions.
While the others spread out, I drifted toward the edge of the meadow, seeking a moment of solitude to breathe without witnesses. Mav did not follow, though I sensed the limit of the tether pulling with each step away from him. His earlier silence echoed, an unanswered knock. I had tried to be brave in admitting my fondness for him. It seems bravery does not render one lovable—only easier to disappoint.
My stomach issued an unladylike growl. I plucked a low apple—pale gold, blushed pink—perfect by all measures. When my teeth broke the skin, juice flooded. It tasted the way I imagined a happy childhood might, sunlight one could hold.
I sank into the grass; it received me with a sigh. I watched Vesper doze upon a branch, tail over nose. Thistle chewed something dark and purple and made skeptical noises. Branrir rubbed down his horse and conversed with it as though the creature might answer.
Footsteps sounded to my left. I did not look up. Mav crouched beside me.
