He’s the first to speak.
“The mask?”
His voice is low. Rough, maybe. Or maybe it’s just my brain, still fried from earlier roller trauma and general Tyler proximity.
I nod and move to the bed, reaching for the unopened box he left earlier. It’s still pristine, not because I didn’t want to look, but because I’d been too busy fighting with rogue curls, and my own mortality.
My fingers fumble the lid open like it might explode.
Inside is a pink satin eye mask, not the flimsy plastic sort you grab at a party shop, but something exquisite. The satin is soft, almost liquid under my fingertips, shimmering with the faintestblush when it catches the light. Tiny diamantés trace the edges in a pattern so precise it looks stitched by fairy hands, catching like stars every time I move.
It’s not remotely Tudor-approved, which somehow makes it feel even more perfect, like a quiet rebellion wrapped in ribbon.
I gasp. Not dramatically, just a sharp, involuntary inhale that escapes before I can stop it.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
And it is. It’sthoughtful.Personal, even. Like someone knew I’d never have chosen black or gold or anything too obvious, knew I’d need something that felt soft, romantic, a little bit playful, something that would make me feel likeme.
I glance up at him, suspicion flickering. How the hell did he even find this in the middle of nowhere? It’s not like Hever Castle has a secret ballgown boutique in the gift shop.
He steps closer, clearing his throat. “May I?”
I nod, throat too tight to manage words.
His hands are careful as he ties the ribbon behind my head and adjusts the fit with maddening precision, fingers brushing the edge of my hairline as though he has all the time in the world.
When I finally turn to face him, the moment between us hums.
“What, Mr. Rogue,” I whisper, “no jokes?”
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t smirk.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, almost rough, like the words cost him something.
“There’s nothing to laugh at.”
Something in my chest tips, a soft lurch that steals the snark right out of me.
I simply nod.
Because for once, I can’t speak.
He holds out his hand, palm open, steady, patient.
For a heartbeat, I just stare at it, like taking it might be some kind of irreversible choice.
Then I slide my fingers into his, and he curls his around mine, strong and sure, like there was never any doubt I’d say yes.
The touch is simple. Too simple for how it feels.
Warmth runs up my arm, settling somewhere deep and low and we step into the corridor together, hand in hand, masked and silent.
And in that quiet, terrifyingly vulnerable moment, one thought lodges so firmly in my chest I almost trip on the carpet:
I want this story to keep going.
Hand in hand.
