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Because they’re your favourite and I’m selfish enough to want to be the man who gives you what you love.

Because I wanted to make you something that would last. Something you could carry, something you could keep, even if you kept refusing me.

When I speak, I don’t dress it up this time.

“Because when I saw you breathe in primrose on Bealtaine, I kent I’d spend the rest of my life wantin’ to see that look on yer face again.” I pause. “The way you went soft for a heartbeat, like the world had finally done you one kindness.”

I let her see the truth of it in my face.

“And because I promised myself that day I’d be a patient man,” I add, quieter. “That I’d win you in yer own time, or not at all.”

Ellen’s lashes lower. She runs her thumb over the wax seal, slow and thoughtful.

For a moment, she looks like she might say something cutting. Something that would put space back between us where she feels safe.

But then she does something I don’t think she’s ever done.

She looks at me with every tender, wounded part of herself laid bare.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her voice no longer sharp, but raw around the edges.

The question hits like a blade turned inward.

I force myself to answer honestly.

“I want you,” I say.

Her lips part.

“Not in the way ye think,” I add, though my body has its own opinions about that. “Well, not only that. I mean… Gods. I want yer laugh in my house. Yer temper in my arms. Yer stubbornness—mercy me, yer stubbornness—beside mine, so we can argue until we’re both grey and still somehow end up in the same bed at night.”

A breath of laughter escapes her, reluctant and dangerous.

I lean in a fraction, because I can’t help myself now.

“I want to build a life with you,” I say. “A real one. With hard days and muddy boots, joy enough to carry us, grief when it comes, and all the ugly bits that folk refuse to speak about aloud. I want it all, Ellen.”

She blinks once, fast, like she’s trying to clear the shine there.

And something inside her—some last brace, some last barricade cracks.

“James…” she whispers, as if my name is a confession.

I hold still, afraid that if I move, I’ll spook her back into the distance.

“I love everything ye have to give,” I say, voice rough. “Even the parts that bite. Especially the parts that bite.”

Ellen’s throat works again. Her hands tremble around the bottle before she sets it gently beside her.

“You dinnae,” she says, but it’s not conviction. It’s fear.

“I do.”

“You cannae⁠—”

“I can,” I insist. “I love yer mind. I love that ye see straight through nonsense. I love that you act as if ye’ve never needed anyone, but still show up when people need you. I love the way ye hold yerself up when ye’ve got eyes on you, and the way ye soften when you reckon no one’s lookin’.”

Her lips press together hard, trying to keep control.