“Safe isn’t the same as living.”
No.His gaze held hers, and what she saw there made her breath catch.It is not. And then you appeared. In a flash of lightning, dressed in flowers and gossamer. Talking to yourself about odd doings. And I thought—His hands faltered.I thought perhaps the world still held wonders I had not yet imagined.
She felt tears prick at her eyes and blinked them back fiercely.
“Gareth—”
You gave me back my voice,he signed.Not my speech—that was always still there, waiting. You gave me my voice. The part of me that could connect. That could trust and feel.His handsdropped briefly to his sides before rising again.And now I am terrified. Because if something happens to you, I do not know who I will become.
“Nothing is going to happen to me,” she said, her voice thick. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You cannot promise that.
“No. I can’t. But neither can you. Neither can anyone.” She stepped closer, close enough to touch. “That’s what it means to be alive, Gareth. To care about things you might lose. To love people who could hurt you. You can’t protect yourself from loss by refusing to live.”
I know.His hands moved slowly, deliberately.I know. But I do not know how to stop being afraid.
“You don’t stop. You just... keep going anyway.” She reached up and touched his face—the scarred jaw, the rough stubble, the skin that was warm beneath her fingers. “That’s what courage is. Not the absence of fear. Just the decision to keep going despite it.”
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, something had shifted in his expression.
You see me,he signed.You are the first person in three years who has truly seen me.
“Yes, I see you.”
She let her thumb trace the edge of his scar. His breath caught. His hands came up to cup her face, mirroring her gesture, his calloused palms gentle against her skin.
“I see the fear,” she continued softly. “I see the anger. I see the loneliness. And none of it makes me want to run. None of it makes me care about you less.”
You should.But his hands moved gently now, the earlier violence gone.You should run from me. I will only bring you pain.
“Maybe. Probably. Life is painful.” She smiled, though her eyes were wet. “But you also bring me joy. You bring me purpose. You bring me a reason to wake up in the morning and fight for something.” Her voice dropped. “You make me feel seen. For the first time in years.”
They stood there in the golden afternoon light, her hand on his face, his hands cradling hers. The argument that had started this felt distant now—a storm that had passed to reveal something clearer beneath.
I see you too,he signed finally, releasing her face just long enough to shape the words.Your brilliance. And your courage. Your endless words that fill up all the silences I used to hide in.His hands returned to cup her jaw, thumbs brushing her cheekbones.I did not know I was lonely until you showed me what connection felt like.
“Then stop trying to lock me away.” She pressed her forehead to his. “Let me stand beside you. Let me be your partner, not your prisoner.”
He was still for a long moment.If something happens to you?—
“Then you’ll burn the world down. I know.” She pulled back enough to meet his eyes—pale as morning frost, and just as sharp. “I’m counting on it, actually. Makes me feel very secure.”
That surprised a breath of laughter out of him—silent, but real. His thumb traced her cheekbone, rough and gentle at once.
You are difficult.
“I’m an archaeologist. We specialize in difficult things.” She grinned despite herself. “Found any good dead civilizations lately?”
Just one.His expression softened.Though it may not be as dead as it seemed.
They stood there, breathing the same air, close enough to kiss but not crossing that final distance. Not yet. The momentstretched between them, fragile and perfect. A sharp knock shattered the silence.
“My lord!” Bertram’s voice, urgent through the door. “My lord, riders approaching from the north!”
Gareth’s hands dropped from her face. The softness vanished from his expression, replaced by the cold focus of a man preparing for battle.
He crossed to the door in three strides and pulled it open. Bertram stood there, breathing hard, his weathered face tight with worry.
