Then, it hits me.
"God," I breathe. "Did you hear…?"
I don’t finish.
He studies my face for a moment, the mischief easing out of his eyes, replaced by something quieter. His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek. The warmth of his skin seeps into the ache and my throat tightens all over again, the touch so gentle it almost hurts more. I flinch despite myself, then lean into it.
I look at the blue of his eyes, the ones that used to follow me through fields when we were children, those I learned to look for in acrowd without knowing why. The sweet curve of his mouth. The steadiness of him, solid and real and close enough to touch. I catch his hand before he can pull away and hold it between mine.
"I’m so sorry." My gaze drops to the space between us. "I didn’t mean to be seen like that," The words spill out, tangled and urgent. "I didn’t mean to misbehave. I love you. Only you. I would never—"
My fingers tighten around his. "I’m devoted to you, Radu. I promise."
Before I can utter another word, he steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of him, the familiar scent of smoke and wool. His hand slides from my cheek to my jaw, steadying me, lifting my face just enough.
Then his lips meet mine.
The kiss is soft. Careful. Nothing like the chaos still ringing in my ears. Everything slips away, leaving only the touch of it, the way my breath stutters and then eases.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests briefly against mine, his thumb brushing beneath my eye. The night presses close around us, tavern sounds muffled and distant, my heart beating too fast for such a small space.
Then comes his laugh, almost boyish again. "You know why I love you."
I blink up at him.
"You’re not dull like the others." A crooked smile tugs at his mouth. "Not bowed and gray before your time," he snorts quietly. "All those old women, clutching their scarves and muttering about sin like it’s waiting behind every thing. It’s ridiculous."
I smile, breath shuddering out of me, and let him pull me closer again. His lips finds mine once more, and this time I don’t hesitate. I rise into it, grateful, hungry for reassurance, for warmth, for something solid to hold onto after the way the night has torn at me. His lips linger, deepen just enough to make my head spin.
Then his hands grow bolder.
One slips closer than before, tracing where it never has, fingers sliding beneath the seam of my bodice. The other lifts my skirts along my thigh, enough that the night brushes skin it never should. I press closer to him despite myself, heart racing, heat blooming where his touch lingers.
My breath catches.
I want.
The thought startles me with its clarity. I want the warmth of him, the quiet hunger in his touch, the promise carried in the way he leans into me.
Shame follows close behind.
Impure.
Sinful.
Mama’s voice. Popa Vasile’s sermons. Their weight presses down on my chest until I can barely draw air.
"Radu," I whisper. "Wait."
He doesn’t let go right away, caught in the moment, in the heat of it. Panic flares.
"Please," I beg, weaker than I want to be. "We have to—we must be patient. Our marriage… it’s close. We can’t—"
My hands push gently at his chest, just enough to create space. I stand there trembling in his arms, heart torn in too many directions at once—want pulling me forward, fear dragging me back, shame wrapping itself around everything like a net.
He pulls away at last.
The space between us feels abrupt, still relief washes over me as I smooth my skirts with trembling fingers, trying to gather myself back into something whole.
