The night was deep, the stars hidden behind a veil of clouds, the wind whispering through the passes like a forgotten lullaby. The fire in Kaelen's chambers had burned down to embers, casting the room in a soft, amber glow that seemed to hold its breath. The shadows danced on the stone walls, stretching and shrinking with each pulse of the dying light.
We sat together on the window seat, his arm around my shoulders, my head on his chest. The world outside was dark and cold, but here, in this small room, there was warmth. There was peace. There was love.
Kaelen had been quiet all evening, his thoughts turned inward, his winter-grey eyes fixed on some middle distance I could not see. I did not press. I had learned to give him space, to let him come to me when he was ready. The confession of the night before lingered between us, a bridge between what was and what might be.
Now, as the fire died and the night deepened, he spoke.
"Rosalind."
