She didn't break. Instead she opened like a flower blooming in firelight, responsive and eager and completely present in ways that destroyed every defensive wall I'd constructed around my heart. The vulnerability required for that kind of connection terrifies me almost as much as it exhilarates.
Because this changes everything. Last night wasn't just physical release or comfort-seeking in the aftermath of trauma. It was choice, deliberate and mutual, that created bonds extending far beyond temporary arrangement or political necessity. Whatever happens with clan politics or the Valentine Rite, I can't pretend distance anymore. Can't fake indifference when every instinct screams at me to protect and provide and claim her in ways that have nothing to do with tradition.
The irony isn't lost on me. For weeks I've been fighting against circumstances that seemed determined to force intimacy between us, convinced that any relationship built on external pressure was doomed to repeat past failures. But when she kissed me last night, it wasn't because of rituals or clan expectations or anything beyond her own need to feel wanted.
She chose me. In that moment, free from coercion or manipulation, she chose connection over safety. The knowledge sits in my chest like banked fire, warming places that have been cold since Nira died.
Saela stirs against me, fingers flexing against my skin as consciousness returns gradually. I feel the moment awareness fully settles—her breathing changes, muscles tensing slightlyas she remembers where she is and what happened between us. When she finally opens her eyes, meeting mine with an expression I can't quite read, something shifts in her face that makes my stomach clench with sudden dread.
"Good morning," I say quietly, keeping my voice neutral despite the uncertainty crawling through my veins.
She sits up abruptly, pulling the furs around her shoulders to cover bare skin that glowed like gold in last night's firelight. The movement puts distance between us that feels like a chasm opening, physical space that speaks to emotional retreat I recognize too well.
"I should go back to my room," she says without meeting my eyes, scanning the floor for discarded clothing. "Before anyone shows up.."
"Saela." Her name scrapes up my throat, concern bleeding through despite my attempts at staying calm. "What's wrong?"
She finds her tunic, clutching the wool against her chest like armor while her gaze fixes on anything except my face. "Nothing's wrong. I just... we should probably pretend this didn't happen."
The words send confusion and hurt warring in my chest. "Why would we do that?"
"Because I complicated everything." Her voice carries self-recrimination that makes me want to pull her back into my arms until she understands how wrong she is. "You made it so clear from the beginning that you didn't want this arrangement, didn't want to be forced into anything. And here I am, taking up space in your longhouse, in your life, and then last night I just... I crossed a line I had no right to cross. I shouldn't have made you feel like you had to comfort me."
Understanding crashes over me with sickening clarity. She thinks she pressured me. Thinks last night was obligation or pity instead of genuine desire that's been building since the momentshe stumbled into our festivities with defiance blazing in her gray-green eyes.
"You think I felt obligated to sleep with you." The statement emerges flat with disbelief.
"Didn't you?" Her chin lifts with challenge, but I catch the vulnerability underneath—genuine fear that she somehow coerced intimacy I didn't want. "I was upset, traumatized, throwing myself at someone who's been nothing but kind to me despite having his life turned upside down by my presence. What else could you do?"
The question makes something primal and protective roar to life in my chest. That she could believe, even for a moment, that last night was anything less than complete mutual desire speaks to damage that goes deeper than I realized. Someone taught her that her needs and wants were burdens to be managed rather than gifts to be cherished.
I sit up slowly, movements deliberate as I face her fully. "Look at me."
Her gaze darts to mine briefly before skittering away again, hands clutching the tunic tighter. The defensiveness in her posture makes my heart ache with recognition of walls going back up, protection against vulnerability that felt safe in darkness but terrifying in morning light.
"I said look at me, Saela."
This time she holds my gaze, though I can see the effort it costs her. Gray-green eyes bright with unshed tears that she's too proud to let fall, jaw set with determination to hear whatever rejection she thinks is coming.
"I wanted you," I say with conviction that comes from my bones. "Not because you were upset or because I felt sorry for you or because I didn't know how to say no. I wanted you because you're beautiful and brave and you make me feel alive in ways I thought were dead forever."
Her lips part slightly with surprise, but skepticism still shadows her features. "You don't have to?—"
"I'm not saying it to make you feel better." My hands find hers, covering fingers that tremble slightly despite her attempts at composure. "I'm saying it because it's true. Because for two weeks I've been lying to myself about what I feel for you, convinced that keeping distance would somehow protect us both from the complications of caring."
"And now?" The question emerges barely above whisper.
"Now I'm done lying." The admission feels like stepping into freefall, terrifying and liberating in equal measure. "I want this, whatever this becomes between us. I want you, not because tradition demands it or because circumstances force it, but because you're you."
She searches my face with intensity that makes my pulse quicken, looking for signs of deception or obligation. Whatever she finds there seems to satisfy some internal verification process, because tension slowly bleeds from her shoulders.
"I don't want to be someone's burden," she says quietly. "I've been taking care of myself my whole life, and the idea of depending on someone, of being someone's responsibility..."
"You're not my responsibility," I interrupt, understanding dawning. "You're my choice. There's a difference."
The distinction hits home—I can see it in the way her eyes widen slightly, walls cracking just enough to let hope filter through. She's been carrying the weight of believing her presence was imposition rather than gift, that any care offered came from duty rather than genuine affection.
"You're sure?" The vulnerability in her voice makes my chest tight.
