We stand there, so close, so far, drowning in everything we’re spilling from our hearts.
The letter crumples further beneath my palm, the sharp edge biting into my skin. I want to tear it, to shred it into a hundred pieces.
“Clara,” Marcel says, his voice low, careful, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter if he’s not gentle enough. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to give yourself to a man you don’t love.”
Tears spill over, hot trails down my cheeks. “And what would I do instead?” My voice breaks, bitter and aching. “Go home to Cheyenne and tell them I’ve ruined everything? That I’ve embarrassed my family and broken every promise they ever pinned on me? Where would I even go, Marcel? I don’t have a place. I don’t have a future without them.”
He steps closer, the scent of earth and roses wrapping around us. His hand hovers near my arm, then falls to his side as if he’s forcing himself to keep the distance. His eyes search mine, steady and unwavering.
“You’d have me,” he says simply.
The words land like a stone in still water, sending ripples through every hidden corner of my heart.
He swallows hard, his jaw tight, his voice shaking but sure. “If you stayed, I’d make a home for you here. I don’t have much, but what I do have, I’d share with you. I’d provide for you, protect you, love you the way a man is meant to love a woman. I’d do everything I could to make you happy. I swear it.”
I can’t breathe. The truth of it—the raw, open sincerity—undoes me. My knees feel weak, my heart so loud I’m sure he must hear it.
“Marcel…” His name leaves my lips as a whisper, half prayer, half curse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he insists softly. “I’ve known from the moment I first saw you. Clara, if you asked me, I’d walk through hell to give you a life of your own choosing. I’d spend every day trying to earn the right to stand beside you.”
I shake my head, tears spilling faster now. “Don’t say that. Please don’t. You’ll make me want to believe it’s possible.”
“It is possible.” He finally dares, his fingers brushing mine where they still clutch the letter. “All you have to do is say the word, and I’m yours. We’ll figure the rest out.”
My chest heaves, torn in two. One half of me burns with longing—desperate to throw myself into his arms, to let him strip away the weight of duty and replace it with the fierce, gentle love I know he carries. The other half feels the chains of Cheyenne clamped tight, the voices of my parents, of society, of obligation all screaming that I belong to Phillip, not to myself.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trembling. “If I could be yours—” I whisper, “I would. I want that more than anything. But I don’t know how it’s possible.”
When I open my eyes, his are bright, shining with the same unshed tears that blur mine. He doesn’t press further, doesn’t demand. He just looks at me like he’s memorizing the shape of my face, the sound of my voice, storing them away for the day when duty finally rips us apart.
“I’ll wait for you, Firefly,” he says, quiet and certain. “For as long as I have breath, even after my breath is taken from my body, I’ll wait.”
The letter lies forgotten on the floor, its edges curling against the stone. My hands tremble, not from guilt anymore but from the storm that rages in me, raw and undeniable.
“Why do you call me Firefly?”
His hand comes to my cheek, his eyes steady on mine. “Fireflies give a hint of light before the moon fully takes over. And for me, Clara, I know how dark it will be when you leave this place. But for a moment, I get to see your light, glimpses of it against the dusk, and it makes me want to catch that light and keep it for my own.”
“Marcel, that’s…beautiful,” I whisper, the word thick with everything I’ve swallowed down. “I?—"
For the briefest moment, I see him falter. A war flashes in his eyes—gentleman against man, restraint against hunger. But then his resolve cracks, and his mouth claims mine, not timid, but desperate. And still, even in that desperation, he holds me like I’m breakable, like he’s afraid the force of his longing might shatter me.
And I feel it. I will never love another man.
The heat of him, the weight of his hands cupping my face, the way he drinks me in as though he’s been thirsty for years—it all floods through me, head to toe. I clutch at his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there’s no air left between us.
I thought kisses were meant to be polite things. Pressed lips, brief and forgettable. But this…this is revelation. This is fire searing through my veins, unmaking me in the best and most terrifying way.
He breaks away for only a heartbeat, his lips tracing along my jaw, his breath unsteady. His eyes meet mine—wide, reverent, dark. He doesn’t speak, but his expression says it all. That he would move heaven and earth if I asked him, that this moment is as holy to him as it is to me.
And then I’m kissing him again, returning his energy. The greenhouse air is thick, but all I can taste is him, warm and alive and utterly mine.
My body betrays me, aching, restless, desperate for more. I catch his wrist, guiding him closer, my breath shallow. His hand stills against my thigh, the warmth of his touch searing through the fabric of my dress. His brow creases, and his voice is rough, trembling at the edges.
“Clara,” he whispers, eyes boring into mine. “Can I…lift your dress?”
The question breaks apart every bit of decency in me. My lips part, the answer escaping quickly. “Yes.”
