"That was the single most..." He stopped. Started again. "I don't have words. For what that was."
"Good," she said. "Words are overrated anyway."
His lips twitched—almost a smile.
He guided her toward the settee near the hearth without letting go, unwilling to break contact now that he finally had it.
She curled into his side before he could overthink it.
Her head found his shoulder like it belonged there. Her hand settled on his chest, over his heart. Her legs tucked up, body fitting against his.
His arm wrapped around her.
They sat in silence. The fire crackled. His shadows drifted in lazy spirals, utterly content.
His free hand found hers. Their fingers interlaced.
He studied the way their hands fit together. Her small fingers between his long ones. Her warmth against his cold. Her calluses against his smooth palms.
He memorized it.
"Stop thinking so loud," she murmured against his shoulder. "I can hear you catastrophizing from here."
"I don't catastrophize."
"You absolutely do. I can feel your whole body tensing up."
She wasn't wrong. He forced his muscles to relax. Forced himself to stay present instead of spiraling into all the ways this could end badly.
Her thumb traced circles on his chest. Idle. Soothing. Liketouching him was natural. Like she'd been doing it for years instead of minutes.
His arm tightened around her.
At some point, her breathing evened into sleep.
He closed his eyes and listened to her breathe and let himself exist in this moment without trying to hold onto it.
She leaned against his side. Her hand over his heart.
Her fingers twitched in sleep, curling tighter into his shirt.
He pressed his lips to the top of her head.
His shadows curled around them both.
For the first time in centuries, the Reaper slept peacefully.
L.
DANTE
He woke to warmth.
For a disorienting moment, he couldn't place it. His chambers were always cold, the hearth always dying overnight, the chill of the Forsaken court seeping through stone walls that had never known summer. But something was different. Something was?—
Brynn.
She was still tucked against his side, one hand curled into his shirt, her breath slow and even against his collarbone. At some point in the night, she'd shifted, wedging herself more firmly into the space between his body and the arm of the settee, as though determined to claim every available inch of contact.
