"Right. Facts." Her mouth quirks with suppressed amusement. "No sentiment involved at all."
There's teasing in her tone, lightness I've rarely heard from her. But tonight it's different. Like she's relaxed enough to play instead of constantly bracing for threat. The shift makes something warm unfurl in my chest—pride maybe, or satisfaction that she feels safe enough here to lower her guard.
That I helped create that safety.
The hall gradually fills as more clan members arrive, the noise level rising to near-overwhelming as conversations layer over each other. Serving vessels get passed around—roasted meat and root vegetables, bread still warm from baking, fermented drinks that Ursik's already consuming with concerning enthusiasm several tables over.
Kai and Saela claim spots nearby, the two of them wrapped up in their own conversation, barely noticing the surrounding chaos. Watching them makes my chest ache with something I don't have words for—longing maybe, or recognition of what I might have with Ressa if I don't fuck it up.
If she keeps wanting this. Keeps wanting me.
The uncertainty eats at my usual confidence like acid through metal. I know healing. Know how to assess injuries and create treatment plans and manage pain. This—whatever existsbetween Ressa and me—follows no diagnostic criteria I've been trained to navigate.
She said she wanted me. But I'm not sure if that was just in the moment. Until she heals. As a bedmate and nothing more. What if I push too hard and she retreats? What if the kiss was an aberration brought on by festival atmosphere and rainbow-induced euphoria rather than genuine attraction?
"You're thinking very loudly," Ressa observes quietly, her brown eyes studying my face with unnerving accuracy.
"Just considering logistics."
"Logistics." She doesn't sound convinced. "For what?"
Gift presentation timing. Making sure I don't say anything awkward when giving her the bracelet. Figuring out if kissing you again would be welcome or overwhelming.
"The exchange process," I lie smoothly. "Want to make sure we follow proper protocol."
"Liar." But she's smiling, the accusation carrying no heat. "You don't care about protocol."
She's right. I don't. What I care about is the gift tucked in my pocket and whether she'll understand the meaning behind each carefully chosen charm. Whether she'll recognize the hours I spent selecting components that represent everything I can't figure out how to say with words.
Safety. Protection. The promise that I'll stand between her and harm.
The promise that she matters.
Bronn stands eventually, his massive frame commanding attention without needing to raise his voice. The hall quiets gradually, conversations tapering off as clan members turn their focus toward their leader. I'm surprised he's the one standing and not Drogath.
I guess everyone has gotten deeply invested in the festivities.
"Tonight we celebrate partnership," he begins, his deep voice carrying easily across the space. "The bonds we've strengthened through shared challenge. The gifts we offer symbolizing commitment to continued growth together."
The speech continues—something about prosperity and fortune and the symbolic meaning of exchange. I stop listening, too aware of Ressa sitting beside me, the gift in my pocket feeling heavier with each passing moment.
This matters. The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity. What happens in the next few minutes actually matters to me in ways most things haven't for years.
I need her to like it. Need her to understand what I'm trying to express through metal and stone and careful construction.
Need her to know she's important.
Bronn finishes speaking and the exchange begins, pairs throughout the hall presenting gifts to each other with varying degrees of ceremony. Some couples make elaborate speeches. Others offer simple exchanges without commentary. The variety suggests there's no single correct approach, which should be reassuring but somehow makes the uncertainty worse.
What if I do this wrong?
"Should we—" Ressa starts, then pauses, her hand moving to the bag she brought with her. "Do you want to go first or should I?"
"You choose."
She pulls a wrapped bundle from her bag, the fabric green with blue threading—colors that look familiar though I can't immediately place why. Her hands shake slightly as she unwraps it, revealing?—
A hand-knit wrap. Deep green and blue yarn woven in intricate patterns that must have taken hours of careful work. The colors are mine—my eye color rendered in textile form.
