Page 40

We stand here, eyes locked, her expression vulnerable and beautiful. In this instant, I want to tell her everything—that she’d been in my thoughts, in my heart, that every moment leading me to this cliff had felt like a race against time just to be here, just to be with her.

Then, in a rush, she launches herself at me with reckless abandon, crashing into me with such force that I stumble backward, nearly toppling to the ground. In my arms, she feels like pure fire, igniting every nerve ending in my body. I hug her tightly, the instinct to hold her anchors me in place. Selfishly, I choose to take this moment for myself—if only for a moment, I can be hers, and she can be mine.

The intoxicating scent of her skin—primrose and something wild, like the moors in springtime—saturates every breath I take, the fragrance stirs something deep within me, awaking desires I want to keep buried. Three years without this fragrance, three years of wondering if I’d ever breathe it in again, sharpen every second she’s in my arms, heightening everything until it’s almost unbearable.

Our bodies intertwine tightly as she presses herself against me in such an intimate manner that I can sense every flawless contour of her figure melding harmoniously with mine, creating a fiery passion that simultaneously thrills and terrifies me.

I can’t help but to imagine what the softness of her velvety skin would feel like beneath my fingertips, the delicate heat pressed directly against me. I can picture her skin yielding to my touch, smooth and supple, as if made to fit perfectly with mine.

My mind runs wild as I accept the fact that this far exceeds any touch experienced before. I find myself grateful for the layers separating us, shielding my aching arousal provoked by how flush she is against me.

Her arms wind around my neck in a tender, unrelenting embrace—each gentle squeeze is a tether that binds me to this fleeting moment. And though I hold her now, I know well the sorrow that will come when the embrace is but a memory, a whisper of warmth lost to the cold.

“Your heart is hammering,” she says.

I huff out a laugh, shaking my head. “Aye, well, you nearly knocked me flat—gave me a wee start, you did.”

She leans back enough to look up at me, so close that her warm breath is dancing languidly against my skin. She’s searching my face as her teeth graze her lower lip—just a whisper of pressure at first, then a slow, thoughtful bite. She holds it there long enough that the soft swell of her lip deepens into a flush. The sight sends a fresh bolt of heat through me. My fingers itch to tangle in her hair, to tilt her head back, and claim that perfect mouth.

Her emerald eyes are wide, shimmering with emotion she isn’t attempting to mask. A single tear falls from her eye, and without thinking, I move my hand to her cheek, brushing it away gently with the pad of my thumb. The touch is so natural—so instinctive for me.

Triona lets out a soft, nervous chuckle, wiping the corner of her eye. “Gods, I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice catching in her throat as she tries to pull away. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“Stop.” My hands find her waist, gentle but unyielding—an anchor against the pull of her retreat. “Never apologise for that. Not with me.”

She swallows hard, and I track the movement. Without a word, she steps closer. Her arms slip around my waist, slow but sure, and she rests her head against my chest. I feel the soft hitch of her breath, the faint tremble in her shoulders as she lets herself cry—she lets me see the most vulnerable version of herself.

My hands stay firm on her hips, holding her as if she might vanish with the wind. This simple closeness, the weight of her against me, her warmth seeping through every layer—it undoes me.

It’s not enough. And yet somehow, it’s everything.

“I was just... so surprised. So happy to see you. It... caught me off guard.”

“It’s all right,” I murmur, rough-voiced and aching.

“It was hard,” she says, quieter now. “Not hearing from you. I didn’t realise how much I’d come to depend on you being around… until you weren’t.”

The words hit like a blow I saw coming and still didn’t brace for. I should’ve written more—something, anything—but every time I began to write, it felt impossible. How could I endure longing for the place, the people that were home without unravelling completely?

“I’m sorry, Triona,” I say, voice low, with nothing but compassion clear.

She looks up at me, her brow furrowed, and she pulls away from my embrace in order to wrap her arms around herself.

“Why didn’t you? You got my letters, right?”

There isn’t anger in her voice, just a quiet hurt. The kind that twists the knife even deeper. Her anger is something I knew I deserved, but the hurt is a harder burden to bear.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I try to find the right words. “It was... hard to write home when I missed it so much. I thought if I tried to put it all into words, I’d never stop thinkin’ about how much I wanted to be back. I never intended to hurt anyone. But I missed this… I missed you.”

Her lips part slightly, as if she doesn’t know what to say. After a beat, she nods slowly and reaches for my hand. Her thumb brushes over my knuckles in a soft, reassuring gesture.

“Say no more. I should have considered that,” she breathes, her eyes softening. “I was here with family, and you were there alone. I missed you too, Finn. You have the kindest heart… and I’m so grateful to know it.”

She pauses, her gaze steady. “To call you a friend is an honour,” she finishes quietly.

Friend. The reminder I need at the moment. The reminder I needn’t ignore.

I let out a quiet chuckle, rolling my eyes in mock exasperation as I try to shake off the ache sitting too close to my ribs. “Oh, I wasna alone. Not by a long shot.”