"Oh," I say aloud, the single syllable carrying defeat that makes Nikolai's smile widen further.
He leans back, settling into a more comfortable position within the cocoon's protective embrace. His eyes scan our surroundings with the particular attention of someone assessing their own creation, taking in details I probably missed during my self-absorbed examination of my transformed appearance.
"I think this was made by me, though," he observes, gesturing toward the vines and flowers and thorns that comprise our shelter. "Which means..."
He trails off, hands lifting in preparation for what I recognize as spellwork.
"Wait."
My interruption comes before I consciously decide to intervene, hand reaching to catch his wrist before his fingers can complete whatever gesture he's planning.
He pauses, looking at me with confusion that carries genuine surprise at the interruption.
"Are you okay magically to do that?" I ask, the concern that prompted my intervention surfacing into verbal expression. "You just... you've been through a lot. Emotionally and magically. Are you sure you have the reserves to safely dissolve whatever this is?"
The question carries weight that extends beyond simple inquiry. I watched him cry moments ago—watched centuries of suppressed grief finally find release through tears that spoke to depletion on levels that transcend physical exhaustion. Magic and emotion are connected in ways I'm still learning to understand, and the intensity of what he just experienced must have drawn from reserves that were already low.
He pauses.
Actually considers the question rather than dismissing it with the reflexive confidence that Fae princes usually deploy.
"Well," he says slowly, the word carrying genuine uncertainty that surprises me coming from him. "I don't know. I don't feel exhausted right now."
Right now.
But did he feel exhausted before he created this cocoon?
Did he sense the depletion that led to unconscious magic-working?
Would he recognize the signs if they were present again?
I sit back on my knees, golden skirts pooling around me in patterns that catch the bioluminescence with increased shimmer. The fabric moves like water as I shift, like something living that responds to my body's commands rather than simple cloth that follows gravity's dictation.
Is this a good idea?
Should I let him attempt spellwork when we don't know the state of his reserves?
Or would stopping him be overprotective in ways that insult his autonomy?
He smirks at my obvious internal debate.
Then he leans in.
The motion closes the distance between us with deliberate slowness, giving me time to retreat if I choose, making clear that whatever happens next is my decision to permit or prevent. His face approaches mine with the particular patience of someone who has learned to savor anticipation, who understands that the moments before contact often carry more intensity than contact itself.
His lips brush mine.
The touch is barely there—more suggestion than pressure, more promise than delivery. The sensation sends electricitycascading through my nervous system despite its gentleness, every nerve ending in my mouth suddenly demanding more of what's been offered in such limited quantity.
"You could always boost me up," he whispers against my lips.
The words arrive with breath that mingles with mine, warmth that makes thinking difficult, suggestion that carries implications I'm not sure I'm prepared to fully examine.
Boost.
Energy transfer.
The kind that happens through intimate contact between bonded Fae.
