We stand there like that, two storms stalled by winter air. The wind shifts, carrying the promise of frost, and I shiver.
“You’re cold,” he says immediately.
Before I can protest, he slips his cloak from his shoulders and drapes it around me—careful, deliberate, making sure he doesn’t touch my skin.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he adds after a moment. “Where’s Arther?”
“I gave him the day off,” I reply. “He’s with Mae.”
His jaw tightens, then eases.
“He can’t guard me forever,” I add quietly. “And… they deserve something good. Before the end.”
Keiren studies me, as though weighing his words.
“I’m sorry about Cassy,” he says at last, reaching for my hand to offer warmth, comfort. Still, I flinch away.
He stops immediately.
“I know,” I continue, my voice tight. “I know it’s not your fault. But I can’t—” My throat closes, pressure tightening behind my eyes. I take a sharp breath and force the words out. “I can’t let myself be comforted by you. Not yet.”
Pain flickers across his face, but he doesn’t argue. He inclines his head slightly. “I understand grief,” he says softly. “The instinct to isolate. To push everyone away.” He gestures toward the orchard. “But you don’t have to carry this alone.”
My chest tightens.
“Do you know why we prune trees before winter?” he asks.
I nod. “To remove what would break beneath snow. To strengthen the whole.”
“Yes,” he says. “Not to punish the tree. To protect it.”
He hesitates, then adds gently, “You need to forgive yourself.”
“I don’t know how,” I admit. “Not without feeling like I’m betraying her. Or the memory of those I love.”
His voice softens. “Forgiveness doesn’t erase love. It honors it.”
The morning light creeps higher, illuminating bare branches and quiet truths.
“I don’t need you to forgive me today,” he continues. “I only ask that you don’t disappear entirely.”
The wind stirs the branches overhead.
I step closer, not into his arms—not yet—but close enough to share the same breath.
When I finally reach for him, it isn’t hunger that drives me.
It’s trust.
I rest my forehead against his chest.
For a moment, he doesn’t move—then he exhales, shaky and relieved, and wraps his arms around me. Not tight. Not possessive. Just enough to hold me upright.
That’s when it breaks.
The grief I’ve been damming spills free—hot, silent tears soaking into his tunic as my shoulders shake. I clutch him like I might fall apart without the anchor of his heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he murmurs at last, his voice rough with emotion. “As long as you’ll have me.”
