Harris swallowed each time, Adam’s apple bobbing like he was fighting something rising inside him.
“You’ve done this before?” he asked, trying for casual.
“No,” she murmured truthfully. “But I wanted to learn.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “Of course ye did.”
She shaped the sides, evened the weight of his curls, brushed loose strands from the curve of his ear. Her thumb lingered a heartbeat too long.
He stilled.
“Fiona…”
Her name buckled in him, like the start of a confession.
“Hush,” she whispered, steadying her hand even as her pulse thundered. “I’m concentratin’.”
He obeyed.
By the time she finished, Harris looked different.
Sharpened.
Less fugitive… more man.
She set the blade down gently. “There.”
He turned to face her, a dark curl falling slightly across his brow despite her efforts. His eyes warmed, softened, darkened.
“Ye did it well,” he said. “Better than I deserve.”
She brushed the stray curl off his forehead. “I’ll keep it short for ye. As long as ye need.”
His breath caught.
No kiss followed. No rush, no wildfire.
Just a moment so thick with unspoken vow the air trembled.
Harris reached out, taking her wrist with a care that felt like reverence.
“Fiona,” he said softly, “dinnae go makin’ promises unless ye mean tae keep them.”
She met his gaze head-on.
“I do.”
The lantern guttered.
The rain softened.
And Harris Mackenzie—who had carried gold across half of Scotland without breaking—closed his eyes, bowed his head, and let the weight of her words settle into the one place he still protected:
His heart.
Her lips brushed his. Gentle. Barely-there. Nothing like the wildfire from before.
It was worse. More dangerous.
