Zeidan arches a brow. “I was a child once.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I assure you, I was inconveniently small.”
“That’s worse,” I tell him. “Small and brooding?”
“I did not brood.”
“You absolutely brooded.”
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Ron cheated.”
“In a pillow fight?”
“He filled his with sand once.”
I stare at him.
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
I press a hand over my mouth, laughing again. “You were assaulted by decorative bedding.”
“He declared it a strategic adjustment.”
“That explains so much about him.”
“And me,” Zeidan adds dryly.
I shake my head, still smiling. “No. You would have insisted on rules. Formal combat. Approved pillow density.”
“That is absurd.”
“It is painfully accurate.”
For a moment he just looks at me, really looks, and the teasing expression softens into something warmer.
“You laugh differently now,” he says quietly.
The words catch me off guard. “What?”
“It’s lighter,” he says. “Less guarded.”
My chest tightens, not painfully. Just… aware.
“Maybe I’m less alone,” I reply.
Something in his expression shifts again. He steps closer. The space between us disappears without urgency. His handslides around my waist, warm and steady, drawing me gently against him. I let myself lean into him.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The archives remain silent witnesses, dust turning lazily through a beam of light that spills across his shoulder and into his hair. He lowers his head slightly, and I feel his breath brush my temple before his lips press softly into my hair. It isn’t heated. It isn’t hungry. It’s… tender.
A quiet claim that feels earned. I close my eyes.
“If Ron ever learns you’re capable of this,” I murmur against his chest, “your reputation will be ruined.”
