"Liar." Her grin turns wicked. "You've been thinking about it constantly. I can see it on your face."
She's not wrong. I have been thinking about it—imagining different scenarios, rehearsing potential words, trying to figure out how to express feelings I barely understand myself.
"I might tell him I liked kissing him," I venture cautiously. "And that I want to do it again."
"Direct." Shae nods approvingly. "Falla appreciates directness."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I've watched him work as a healer for years. He has no patience for people dancing around what they mean." She returns to her carving with careful precision. "If you tell him plainly what you want, he'll respect that. Probably be relieved by it."
The observation settles some of the nervous energy fizzing under my skin. I can do direct. Direct is easier than trying to navigate unspoken implications and subtle hints. Direct means clear communication, and after everything I've survived, I value clarity.
"Okay," I say, more to myself than them. "Direct. I can do that."
"You absolutely can." Saela's expression goes mischievous. "Though maybe save the really direct conversation for after the feast. Bronn gets uncomfortable when people get too romantic in public."
Shae laughs, warm and genuine. "He does not."
"He absolutely does. Remember during the Valentine's Rites when?—"
They dissolve into banter about Bronn's reactions to public displays of affection, the conversation flowing easy around me while I work on completing the wrap's final section. And I realize with quiet surprise that I'm relaxed.
Actually relaxed. Around Shae.
My shoulders aren't trying to climb into my ears. My breathing stays steady and even. The cabin walls aren't pressing in because I'm not in the cabin—I'm out in the clan, participating in normal activities, laughing at my friends' stories.
Being normal.
The wrap takes shape under my fingers, row after careful row bringing the pattern to completion. I can picture Falla wearing it, the colors complementing his skin, the practical warmth appreciated during cold nights.
I can picture giving it to him tonight. Telling him directly that I want more. More kisses. More time with him. More of all of this.
For the first time in months, the future doesn't feel like something to fear.
It feels like possibility.
15
FALLA
The feast hall pulses with noise and bodies—laughter ricocheting off stone walls, conversations layering over each other in waves of sound that would normally grate against my nerves. Tonight the chaos feels almost tolerable, background texture to the anticipation thrumming under my skin.
I tell myself it's just the festival energy affecting me. That I'm not specifically waiting for one person to arrive.
I'm a terrible liar.
"—and that's how I convinced three different females to partner with me before finally choosing Kerra," Ursik finishes whatever boast I stopped listening to five minutes ago, gesturing broadly enough his ale sloshes dangerously close to the rim. "Strategy, my friends. Pure strategic brilliance."
"Strategic." Kai takes a measured drink from his own cup, ice-blue eyes carrying that flat amusement he wears when Ursik gets particularly ridiculous. "Is that what we're calling luck now?"
"It's not luck when it's calculated charm."
"Nothing about you is calculated." I lean back against the stone pillar we've claimed as territory, scanning the crowd withpracticed casualness. "You operate on pure chaos and hope things work out."
Ursik clutches his chest like I've wounded him mortally. "You cut me deep, healer. After everything we've been through."
"We've been through you making terrible decisions and me patching up the consequences." My gaze catches on movement near the entrance—red that makes my pulse spike before I realize it's not her. It's a piece of fabric.
