He kisses me then, different from the desperate kiss that sealed our bond. This is slower, exploratory, like we have all the time in the world now.
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling slightly. “Why do you have so many buttons?”
“Why do you have so many layers?” He’s discovered my tank top under my sweater and seems personally offended by its existence.
We solve both problems with more haste than grace. The cool air hits my skin, but I don’t feel cold. I haven’t felt properly coldin days, and now with his hands on me, warm seems like an understatement.
“Rianne,” he says my name like a question and answer combined.
“Yes,” I say, to whatever he’s asking, to all of it.
What follows is awkward at first. We bump noses trying to kiss, I accidentally elbow him, he apologizes every time he thinks he’s being too eager. But then we find our rhythm, the same way we found synchronization in the ceremony. The bond hums between us, not controlling but enhancing, letting me feel his wonder, his want, the careful reverence in every touch.
“You’re still being too careful,” I gasp against his mouth.
“Habit,” he admits, then does something with his fingers that makes me see stars. “But I’m learning.”
“Fast learner,” I manage, then lose all words as he demonstrates exactly how fast.
The bond makes everything more intense. When he kisses that spot below my ear, I feel his satisfaction at my response. When I trace the ice patterns that still linger faintly on his chest, he feels my fascination. It’s overwhelming and perfect and when we finally come together completely, the magic between us sings.
“Look at me,” he says, and I do. His eyes are more gold than blue now, burning with something that makes my chest tight.
We move together, finding rhythm, finding each other. The awkwardness is gone, replaced by desperate need and something deeper. When the peak hits, the bond ensures we fall together, magic spiraling out from us in fractals of ice and light that’ll definitely need explaining to Martha.
After, we lie tangled in the cushions, both thoroughly disheveled, both completely solid. The library is warmer. I’m pretty sure there are frost flowers permanently etched into the ceiling now.
“So,” I say when I can form words again. “That happened.”
“Several times,” he agrees, sounding as wrecked as I feel.
“The bond made us.”
“The bond didn’t make us do anything after the first time.”
I laugh, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “Fair point.”
We doze for a while, tangled together in the cushions. When I wake, morning light is streaming through the windows.
From somewhere in the library, Keith’s voice rises: “KEITH REQUIRES GUIDANCE ON MORNING PROTOCOLS!”
“Keith has the worst timing,” I mutter.
“Keith is Keith,” Stenrik says philosophically.
We dress slowly, reluctantly. My clothes are wrinkled, his shirt is missing at least three buttons, and we both look exactly like what we are: two people who just permanently bonded and then celebrated that fact enthusiastically.
Morning light streams through the windows. The world outside looks normal, the storm gone, life returning to regular rhythm. Except for the shadow creatures visible through the glass, apparently forming an orderly line on the sidewalk.
“Are they queuing?” I ask.
“Keith appears to be organizing them. With a clipboard.”
“Of course he is.”
My phone buzzes. It’s been buzzing for hours, I realize. Forty-seven missed calls from my mother, twelve from work, and... one text from Martin.
“Engaged to Karen! You leaving was the wake-up call I needed. Best thing that could’ve happened. No hard feelings?”
