Valerian hesitated and that was his mistake. A few months later when he'd look back towards this day, he'd always regret not saying the things he should have said.
The single word—Aurelia—had left his lips like a plea he hadn't intended to make. It hung between them, fragile and uncertain, waiting for meaning he did not know how to give it.
Aurelia waited for what he wanted to say.
She did not lean forward. Did not soften her posture. She did not fill the silence the way she once would have, nervously offering him an escape, a reassurance, a way out of the discomfort.
She simply waited. Soren felt his patience snap.
He dragged a hand down his face and muttered under his breath, "By the gods, Valerian, say something."
Valerian shot him a sharp look, but it held no real bite. His attention drifted back to Aurelia almost immediately, drawn there against his will.
