"You're not saying this is a mistake."
"It's the furthest thing from a mistake." I rest my forehead against hers. We're both breathing hard. "I'm saying I want it to matter. I'm saying I want you to be certain. Completely certain. Not because of Vivienne, not despite Vivienne, but because you chose this. Chose me."
"I have chosen you."
"Then choose me again. Tomorrow. When the poison has had time to fade. When you've had time to think, really think, about what she said and what it means and what it doesn't mean." I pull back enough to look at her properly. "I've waited centuries to feel this way again. I can wait another night to be sure you feel the same."
She stares at me for a long moment. I watch her process, that sharp mind working through the implications of what I've said and what I'm offering.
"That might be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me," she says finally.
"I'm over six hundred years old. I've had time to learn."
She laughs, a real laugh, surprised and warm. The sound loosens something in my chest.
"You're also infuriating," she says.
"I've been told."
"And arrogant."
"So I've heard."
"And you're going to leave me aching all night because you want to be noble."
"I'm going to be aching too, if that helps."
"It doesn't." But she's smiling now. Something real, something that reaches her eyes. "It really doesn't."
She pulls me down for another kiss, softer this time. Tender rather than demanding. A promise rather than a plea.
When she pulls back, her expression has changed. The uncertainty is still there, but it's tempered now by something warmer. Something that looks like trust.
"Later," she says.
"Later."
"And you'd better make good on those promises."
"Every single one." I press a kiss to her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "I told you in the car that I remembered every word. Every sound you made. Every way you felt around my fingers. I've been thinking about nothing else for days. When I finally have you, it won't be quick. It won't be desperate. It will be everything I've been imagining since the war room."
Her breath catches. "You're not making the waiting easier."
"Neither are you."
Footsteps in the hallway. We both freeze.
They pass by without stopping, someone on patrol, probably, or staff heading to their quarters. But the moment breaks the spell.
Celeste slides off the desk. Smooths her dress. Touches herhair and grimaces at the damage we've done to Elena's careful work.
I retrieve my jacket from the floor, shake out the wrinkles, don't put it back on. My shirt is still hanging open, and I catch her looking at the exposed skin with an expression that makes me want to forget everything I just said about waiting.
"I should go," she says. "Rest. Process. All the things you're supposed to do after a night like this."
"Celeste."
She pauses, one hand on the door.
