The kiss starts gentle, almost questioning, but then he makes a sound low in his throat and it changes. Deepens. His handsslide from mine to my waist, pulling me closer, and I grip his shoulders for balance. The magic between us flares hot-cold-bright, and I can feel it—the exact moment when my density shifts, when I become more solid under his hands.
He’s shaking with the effort of staying controlled, but his kiss is anything but controlled. It’s desperate and honest and I can feel every emotion he’s been holding back—three hundred years of being alone, of not being seen, of Henderson dying and no one else ever looking past the frost.
And then there’s me. How he sees me: chaotic and brave and wholly unexpected. How the thought of me walking away after this terrifies him more than the ceremony failing.
I kiss him harder, trying to show him I’m not going anywhere, and he responds by deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy with it, with him, with the magic turning the air around us into something that sparkles like fresh snow in sunlight.
“SLIDE SEVENTY-FIVE!” Keith screams from the conference room. “THE QUARTERLY ASSESSMENT OF INTEGRATION METRICS!”
The interruption breaks us apart. We’re both breathing hard, still holding hands. The magic between us settles but doesn’t disappear—it hums under my skin like a promise.
“I...” I start, then notice something strange. I hold up my free hand to the light. “Stenrik, look.”
He does, and his eyes widen slightly. I can barely see through my skin anymore. Yesterday I could see my bones clearly. Now there’s just a faint haziness, like fog trapped under my skin.
“We’re solidifying,” he says quietly.
“From kissing?”
“From connecting. Real connection, not practice.” He turns my hand over in his, studying it. Through what’s left of my translucency, I can see his pulse racing. “The transformation responds to genuine emotion. To choice.”
“That was—” I start, then stop. Because what do I even call that? Practice feels like a lie. But admitting what it actually was feels too big, too real, with two hours until we have to do the ceremony.
“Practice,” he says, but his voice is rough and his eyes won’t meet mine.
“Right. Practice.” I try to pull my hand back but he holds on.
“Rianne.”
“We should probably—” I gesture vaguely toward Keith.
“Yes.” But he still doesn’t let go. “That isn’t what that was.”
“I know.”
“The ceremony?—”
“I know.”
We stand there, hands clasped, the truth hanging between us. We both know that wasn’t practice. We both know it meant something. But saying it out loud, with the ceremony looming and the wrong interpretation still in our heads and everything at stake?—
“Two hours,” I say finally.
We stand there for another moment, hands still clasped, both breathing hard. Through my translucent palm, I can see the ice patterns we’re creating together—something new, neither his nor mine but ours.
From Fiction, a shadow creature reads: “‘Their souls recognized each other across the void—’ Is void recognition a required skill?”
“Very useful in quarterly reviews!” Keith calls.
That breaks the moment. We step apart, and the loss of contact aches.
I check the time on the circulation desk computer. “Less than two hours,” I say, trying to steady my voice.
“Less than two hours.”
“We should probably practice more. The whole... essence exchange thing. Make sure we can hold the connection steady when it counts.”
“Hold steady,” he repeats, and something flickers across his face. “Yes. The anchor must be unshakeable.”
