"Then they've been in the way for decades."
He felt his mouth twitch. The unfamiliar pull of muscles that had been dormant too long. She noticed and pointed at his face.
"There. Right there. You almost smiled."
"I don't smile."
"Youalmostsmile. Which is worse, honestly. It's like watching someone get to the edge of a sneeze and not follow through."
He should not have found that charming. He found it devastating.
"Come on," he said, rising from the chair. “Let’s go get food."
She followed him through to his private dining room, but halfway down the corridor, her hand found his. Her fingers slid between his like they belonged there, and she tugged him to a stop.
"What?" he asked.
"Nothing." She was looking up at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. "I just wanted to do that."
His shadows curled around her wrist in response, and she laughed—a soft, surprised sound.
"They're very clingy this morning."
"They're not the only ones." The words came out before he could stop them.
Her eyebrows rose. "Was that a joke? Did the Reaper just make a joke?"
"No."
"It was. You made a joke about being clingy. I'm marking this day in history."
"I take it back."
"Too late. It's already marked." She started walking again, pulling him along by their joined hands. "The day the Lord of the Forsaken admitted to being clingy. They'll write songs about it."
"They will not."
"Ballads, Dante. Mournful ballads about the Reaper who just wanted to hold hands."
His teeth clenched against the retort he wanted to make, but warmth was spreading through his chest. A feeling that was very close to happiness.
The dining room was familiar territory now, after weeks of working meals and strategy sessions. But everything felt different this morning. She pulled him toward the table, then turned and leaned back against its edge, tugging him closer by their still-joined hands until he stood over her.
"Hi," she said softly.
"Hi."
His free hand rose to her face. His thumb traced along her cheekbone, and she leaned into the touch, her eyes fluttering half-closed.
"I could get used to this," she murmured.
"Don't." The word came out rougher than he intended. "Getting used to me is dangerous."
"So you keep saying." Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "And yet here I am. Undestroyed."
"The day is young."
She laughed again, and he found himself leaning down, drawn by the sound, by the warmth of her, by the impossible reality of her hands on him and his hands on her and neither of them dying from it?—
