She paused, knife hovering over the bread.
“Aye. I did, though I had no choice in the matter, remember?” She said as she stuck her tongue out jokingly.
He slid his hands to her waist then, slow, careful, like he was asking permission even after all this time. She leaned back into him without thinking.
The truth rose up between them, heavy and undeniable.
“Harris,” she said quietly. “This year—”
“I ken,” he said, too quickly.
She turned in his arms, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Do you?”
He searched her face like he was bracing for a blow.
“I was never meant to live like this,” he admitted. “Not long-term. Not safe. Men like me don’t get years.”
Her throat tightened. “But you did.”
“Aye,” he said with a nod. “Because of you.”
Her heart swelled as she reached for his hand.
His jaw flexed. He looked like a man facing a firing line.
“I love you,” he said, low and steady. Not loud enough for the walls. Just enough for her. “And it terrifies me.”
The dam broke.
She pressed her forehead to his chest, breath shaking. “I’ve been afraid to say it,” she admitted. “Like naming it would summon the Crown itself.”
His laugh was soft and broken. “They’d come whether we named it or not.”
She tipped her head back, eyes bright. “I love you too, you maddening bastard.”
His hands tightened. His mouth found hers—not frantic, not desperate, but deep and claiming in a way that felt earned. When he lifted her, it was unhurried.
They did not rush.
The fire burned low. The world narrowed. The door stayed closed.
Later, with their naked bodies entwined under blankets, Fiona traced idle circles over his ribs.
“Promise me something,” she murmured.
He kissed her hair. “Anything.”
“If the Crown comes,” she said. “If they force you to choose between running and staying—”
“I’ll choose you,” he said without hesitation.
Silence held them.
Fiona woke to the sound of boots.
Not marching.
Searching.
