She falls.
I catch her.
Her weight settles against my chest with the particular reality of something that almost wasn't—the terrifyingalmostof loss that didn't quite happen. My arms close around her transformed form with possessiveness that I don't bother trying to moderate, holding her against me like I can protect her from the universe itself through sheer physical contact.
Safe.
She's safe.
I caught her.
She's alive.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it borders on painful—pressure behind my eyes, tightness in my throat, physical symptoms that suggest emotional responses I've spent centuries learning to suppress.
She huffs.
The sound carries exasperation that seems entirely inappropriate given the near-death experience she just endured, but her voice reaches my ears with the particular melody that has come to meansurvivalin my consciousness.
"Man," she grumbles, her transformed features arranged into an expression that might be frustration or might be attempted humor. "They need to make a speed copy of 'how to use your Fae magic for dummies' in crisis situations."
She's making jokes.
She almost died and she's making jokes.
The observation carries the particular mix of annoyance and affection that defines most of my interactions with this impossible woman.
She looks up at me.
Those pink eyes meet mine with intensity that the golden rings around her pupils only amplify—Fae sight examining Duskwalker shadows with the particular attention of someone who has learned to read emotions that others might miss.
"You're mad I man-handled you earlier."
The statement lands with accuracy that makes my jaw tighten.
I roll my eyes.
The gesture is automatic—deflection through dismissal, the particular response of someone who doesn't want to have this conversation right now. Or ever, preferably. Discussing emotions while standing on a platform of shadows above a volcanic hellscape with a three-headed hellhound trying to destroy our only exit seems like particularly poor timing.
I'm not mad.
Well...
Okay, I am.
The admission surfaces in the privacy of my own thoughts where she can't hear it, can't use it against me, can't leverage my vulnerability into conversations I don't want to have.
I'm mad because she threatened me with sexual consequences to force compliance with her commands.
I'm mad because she gave orders like I was some subordinate to be directed rather than a partner to be consulted.
I'm mad because she was right to do it, which somehow makes it worse.
I'm mad because watching that Fae bastard kiss her while I was sleeping made something in my chest turn to ice and fire simultaneously.
I'm mad because I don't know how to be anything else when the woman I love keeps putting herself in danger that I can't protect her from.
But I don't want to admit any of that.
