I meet her gaze with the particular desperation of someone who has finally admitted things they've been holding back for far too long.
"That's fucking it."
Silence.
She holds my gaze for a moment that stretches toward eternity, her transformed features processing whatever she sees in my expression.
Then she huffs.
"I'd say that's romantic," she observes, tone carrying something that might be appreciation but is definitely wrapped in stubbornness. "But even in this form, I cringe at the idea of a man protecting me from danger."
Of course she does.
Of course the most romantic thing I've ever said to anyone gets dismissed as cringe-worthy.
"Gwenievere," I groan, her name escaping as both plea and frustration.
She takes a deep breath.
Lets it out slowly.
Then her hands rise to cup my face—golden-shimmed skin against the shadows that always seem to cling to my features. The touch forces my attention entirely onto her, makes it impossible to look anywhere else, demands that I actuallyseewhat she's about to say rather than simply hearing it.
"I know," she says, voice softer now, carrying understanding that contradicts her earlier stubbornness. "I get it."
Her thumbs brush against my cheekbones with gentleness that makes something in my chest ache.
"I sense your emotions," she continues. "I feel it when we're together, getting lost in lust. I know you want to take me from this unbalanced, chaotic life of trials and mayhem."
She knows.
She's always known.
"But this is the path I'm destined to take," she says, pink eyes holding mine with conviction that refuses to be argued with. "And thankfully, I have you and the others to help me accomplish this."
The acknowledgment of our support should help. It doesn't.
"I don't want to be doing this forever."
The admission surprises me with its vulnerability—glimpse behind the confidence she usually projects, evidence that she's as exhausted by this existence as the rest of us.
"Fuck..." She pauses, collecting herself. "I'd actually want to enjoy a peaceful academic life for one fucking year. Not trials and surviving every single moment like it's our last."
Peaceful.
She wants peace.
Something I can't give her no matter how much I want to.
"I want to love all of you slowly," she continues, the words landing with weight that makes my heart stutter. "I want crazy days learning magic and studying the arts. I want to weed out the wickedness so we can finally learn how to fucking coexist!"
Her frustration is obvious—palpable in the air between us, visible in the tension of her shoulders, audible in the crack of her voice.
My eyes soften despite my best efforts to maintain composure.
She's struggling too.
More than she ever shows.
