Morning light found its way into Tessa's house the way it always did—thin and stubborn, slipping through the shutters to draw pale stripes across the floor.
Tessa lay on her back for a long time, staring at those stripes like they were something she had to solve.
Her head didn't hurt as much as it should have. Her mouth was a little dry. Her body, though—her body was warm in places she didn't want to think about too closely, and pleasantly heavy like she'd finally slept instead of collapsing.
She turned her head.
Ronan wasn't in the bed.
For one sharp second, panic sparked—an old, ugly reflex, the kind that made your chest clamp down before your brain could speak.
Then she heard water, faint through the wall. A bucket being set down. Cloth swishing. The quiet, methodical sounds of someone who cleaned up after himself because he'd been trained by survival and then by habit.
Of course he was up.
Of course he was already moving.
Tessa sat up slowly, blanket tugged to her chest out of instinct more than modesty. Her hair was a mess. Her cheeks warmed as last night replayed in flashes she couldn't stop.
The tavern. The walk home. Her own stupid mouth saying I like you like it was an order. And then—gods—kissing him like she'd been starved.
She pressed a hand to her face.
She'd been drunk.
She'd been drunk and brave and reckless, and she'd crossed a line she'd guarded for years with cold smiles and sharp words.
The worst part?
She didn't regret it.
Not even a little.
The door opened softly.
Ronan stepped in, sleeves rolled, hair damp, a towel in one hand. He looked… annoyingly calm. Like the world hadn't tilted on its axis overnight.
His gaze landed on her, and something in his expression shifted—subtle, but real. A softness he didn't often show in the guildhall, as if her small house had different rules.
"Morning," he said.
Tessa's throat tightened. She hated that one word could make her feel exposed.
"Morning," she echoed, too quiet.
Ronan's eyes flicked over her—blanket, tangled hair, the way she sat like she didn't know where to put her hands. His mouth twitched, almost amused.
"You look like you're about to punch me," he said.
"I might," Tessa snapped automatically. Then, because she was apparently determined to be unbearable, she added, "You were supposed to still be here."
Ronan lifted one brow. "I am here."
"For how long?" The words came out sharper than she meant. She swallowed and tried again, less like a blade. "You're leaving today."
Ronan didn't deny it. He set the towel down on a chair, then leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed. "Yeah."
Tessa's stomach dipped. She wanted to hate him for it. She wanted to hate herself for wanting him to stay.
Instead, she forced the truth out through her teeth. "I know you need to go."
Ronan watched her for a moment, and his gaze was steady in that way that made her feel like he was seeing too much.
"You don't have to say it like that," he said.
"Like what?"
"Like you're giving permission," Ronan replied. "You're not my handler."
Tessa's cheeks burned. "I'm not trying to—"
"I know," Ronan said gently, and the gentleness made her want to throw something. "Tessa."
Her name, from his mouth, was unfairly warm.
She looked away, jaw tight. "I remember everything," she muttered.
Ronan didn't tease. "Good."
"I was drunk," she said, because she needed to say it, needed to name it so it wouldn't feel like she'd been possessed by someone softer. "And I confessed."
Ronan's voice came quiet. "You did."
Tessa's fingers twisted the blanket. "And you…"
"And I stayed," Ronan finished.
Tessa swallowed. The heat crawled up her neck again, betrayal by her own skin. "I'm not sorry," she said, voice rough.
Ronan's expression softened further, like he'd been holding his breath without realizing it. "Neither am I."
Tessa's chest squeezed. For a moment she couldn't speak. It was terrifying, how easy it would be to step closer, to pull him back into bed and pretend the world could wait.
But the world never waited.
Not for adventurers. Not for clerks. Not for men trying to become something else.
Ronan pushed off the wall. "I cleaned up," he said, practical as always. "Your kettle's full. I washed the mugs. The latch on your back window was loose—I fixed it."
Tessa blinked at him. "You fixed my window latch?"
He shrugged. "It bothered me."
It bothered him. Like he was already acting like he belonged here, like this small place was worth protecting.
Tessa's throat tightened again. "You're impossible," she muttered.
Ronan's mouth twitched. "You're the one who kissed me."
"Shut up," she snapped, but it had no bite this time.
Ronan picked up his cloak from the chair and draped it over one arm. His travel bag sat by the door, packed and ready. Of course it was.
Tessa's eyes tracked it like it was a weapon aimed at her chest.
Ronan moved toward the door.
And Tessa realized, sharply, that if she let him walk out like this—quiet, clean, polite—she'd hate herself for it.
"Wait," she said.
Ronan paused, hand on the latch. He looked back.
Tessa threw the blanket off and stood, ignoring the chill. She crossed the room in bare feet, heart pounding like she was heading into a dungeon instead of her own entryway.
She stopped in front of him, close enough that she could smell soap and steel and last night's warmth.
Ronan didn't move. He let her choose.
Tessa grabbed his coat with both hands and yanked him down just enough to kiss him.
This kiss was different from last night. Less desperate. More deliberate. A promise wrapped in stubbornness.
When she pulled back, she didn't give him time to speak. She hugged him—hard, fierce, arms locked around his ribs like she could anchor him by force.
Ronan's arms went around her, firm and steady. He held her for a long moment, and Tessa breathed him in like she was storing it.
When she finally let go, she stepped back and wiped at her face angrily, as if tears were an insult.
"Give me a second," she said, voice tight.
Before Ronan could answer, she turned and hurried to her small desk by the hearth. She yanked open a drawer, dug through papers, and pulled out a sealed envelope.
Then she grabbed a thin leather cord from a hook near the door. On it hung a simple charm—small, worn smooth by fingers. A stamped disc of guild metal, etched with a ward mark used by clerks and runners who traveled unsafe roads.
She turned back to Ronan and shoved both into his hands.
"What's this?" he asked.
Tessa lifted her chin like she was presenting official documents, not offering pieces of herself.
"The letter is for Rowena," she said briskly. "It's… an introduction. And it tells her you're not some War Court thug who's going to throw her out and turn her inn into a barracks."
Ronan's eyes softened. "Tessa—"
"And the charm," Tessa continued, ignoring him, "is for you. It's a road-ward. Mostly it just makes people think twice about stabbing you."
Ronan looked down at it. The charm was simple, but it carried the weight of her hands.
"You keep it," Ronan said.
"It's mine to give," Tessa snapped. Then her voice quieted, just a little. "And if you don't come back… I want to at least be able to say I tried to keep you alive."
Ronan's throat worked. He nodded once, slow. "I'll wear it."
Tessa's stomach unclenched slightly. She reached up and hooked the cord around his neck herself, fingers brushing his skin. Her touch lingered one heartbeat too long.
Her voice dropped. "I like you," she said again, quieter this time. Not as a drunken declaration, but as a sober truth. "But I'm not going to chain you to my desk."
Ronan's gaze held hers. "You couldn't," he said.
Tessa's mouth twisted. "Probably not."
Ronan's expression turned serious. "You're right. I need to go. Not because I don't… care." He hesitated, and she saw the effort it took him to find words. "But because if I don't move now, I never will."
Tessa nodded, swallowing the ache. "Go," she said, voice rough. "Move on from adventuring. Become… whatever ridiculous thing the Civic Court thinks you are."
Ronan's mouth twitched faintly. "An innkeeper."
Tessa rolled her eyes. "Yeah. That."
Ronan took one more step closer and kissed her again—brief, firm, a promise without speeches. Then he rested his forehead against hers for a heartbeat.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Tessa wanted to say for what? She didn't. She knew.
Ronan turned and opened the door.
Cold air rushed in, carrying the city's scent—stone, smoke, salt from the distant docks. He stepped out, then paused at the threshold.
Tessa stood barefoot in her doorway, arms folded tight across her chest like she was holding herself together.
Ronan looked at her once more, eyes steady.
Then he left.
Greyhaven's gates were already busy. Caravans lined up, guards shouting, Civic inspectors checking seals. A hired carriage waited near the outbound lane, its driver half-asleep on the bench, reins loose in his hands.
Ronan climbed up, tossed his bag inside, and settled into the back.
As the wheels began to roll, the city shifted past the window—familiar streets, familiar faces, familiar noise. The guildhall's crest flashed by in the distance like a chapter title closing.
Ronan leaned back and let his eyes drift.
He thought of the March—mud, blood, Lucien's grin over loot. He thought of his old life, the rhythm of raids and returns, the way his body knew the shape of danger like a lover.
He thought of Seraphina—silver hair in wind, sharp eyes that hid too much, a voice that never managed to say the things that mattered. He hadn't told her. He could already imagine the storm when she found out.
And then, unbidden, he thought of Tessa.
Tessa's blunt confession. Her fierce kiss. The charm now resting against his chest, warm beneath his shirt like a small anchor.
Ronan stared out at the road stretching ahead.
Gullwatch waited somewhere beyond Greyhaven's walls—frontier salt air, a struggling inn, a widow in debt, trouble wrapped in soggy wood.
He didn't know what would be waiting for him there.
But the carriage rolled on, and Greyhaven fell behind.
Ronan watched the city shrink through the window until it was just grey stone and memory, and he let himself breathe as if he'd been holding it for years.