His hands come around, palms up. “Place your hands on mine.”
I do. His hands are so much larger than mine, my fingers barely reaching past his palms. Even without magic, energy hums between us. Frost spirals out from where we touch—his controlled fractals mixing with my chaotic swirls.
“Then we breathe together.” His chest presses against my back as he inhales, and I match him. “In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth.”
“We’ve done this before.”
“Not like this.” He adjusts, pulling me back against him more fully. “During the ceremony, you’ll turn in my arms while maintaining palm contact. Slowly. The hands never separate.”
I turn, carefully sliding my palms against his, keeping contact the whole time. It’s awkward and intimate and when I’m finally facing him, we’re chest to chest and I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
“Then?”
“Then we breathe each other’s air.”
“That’s—” I start to protest, but he’s already leaning down. Our faces are inches apart. When he exhales, I inhale his breath. It tastes like winter and something electric.
“Eyes open,” he says. “The whole time.”
This close, his eyes aren’t just ice-blue. There are rings of darker blue near the pupils, flecks of silver throughout. I can see myself reflected in them—translucent, glowing faintly, changed.
“Rianne.”
“What?”
“You’re holding your breath.”
I exhale shakily. He inhales it, and the air between us changes, becomes charged with something that has nothing to do with magic.
“Should we try with magic?” I ask.
“That’s... probably wise.”
Neither of us moves. We’re still breathing each other’s air, and I’m hyperaware of every point of contact.
“Magic,” I say again, my voice coming out breathier than intended.
He nods and lets his power flow. It’s cold at first, making me gasp, but then it warms as it mingles with whatever the Chronicle gave me.
The connection flares. Suddenly I’m not just feeling my emotions but his—quick flashes of images. How I look to him right now, translucent and glowing. The memory of naming Carl. The first time I laughed at one of his attempts at humor. The way my increasing transparency makes him worry and fascinates him in equal measure.
“We should stop,” he says roughly.
“We should,” I agree, not moving.
The magic builds between us until our breathing syncs perfectly. I can feel his heartbeat through our joined hands, steady and strong.
“Rianne,” he breathes against my lips, and his voice is wrecked.
I should step back. We should stop. This isn’t practice anymore and we both know it.
But I don’t want to stop.
I go up on tiptoe. He goes still, giving me the choice, and I realize this is what the Chronicle meant. Not holding on—choosing. Actively choosing to close the distance.
When our lips meet, everything else disappears.
His hands are still creating ice fractals, mine are leaving frost spirals, and where they meet, something new blooms—neither his nor mine but ours.
