Sunlight painted golden stripes across the tangled sheets.
Thallos had been awake for nearly an hour, content to simply watch Marigold sleep. She lay curled against his side, one hand resting on his chest, her dark hair fanned across his pillow like spilled ink. Her face was soft in repose—the tiny furrow between her brows smoothed away, her lips slightly parted, her breathing deep and even.
*Mine,* he thought, and the word resonated through him like a struck chord. She's mine.
Not possessed. Not owned. But chosen and wanted. And he was hers in return, more completely than he'd ever belonged to anyone.
She stirred, her fingers twitching against his skin, and he felt his pulse quicken. Even in sleep, her touch affected him. Every brush of her hand, every unconscious shift of her body against his—it all registered with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming.
Satyrs were creatures of sensation. Of pleasure and music and wild joy. But this was specific. Personal. Per particular scent. The exact weight of her hand over his heart. The precise curve of her hip against his thigh. He wanted to memorize all of it. Catalogue every detail so he could hold it close during the moments when she wasn't beside him.
Her eyelashes fluttered.
"You're staring."
Her voice came out sleep-roughened, barely above a whisper, but her lips curved into a smile even before she opened her eyes.
"Guilty," he admitted. "You're beautiful when you sleep. And when you wake up. And when you're arranging flowers. And when you're telling off your mother. Especially then, actually."
A soft laugh escaped her. She shifted, stretching languidly, and the sheet slipped lower across her shoulder. He tracked the movement hungrily.
"What time is it?" she murmured.
"Early still. Dawn was maybe an hour ago."
Her eyes opened fully then, green and luminous in the morning light. For a moment she just looked at him—searching, assessing. He held still under her scrutiny, letting her see whatever she needed to see.
"This is our second morning together," she said, and he nodded.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering against the soft skin of her cheek. "Any regrets?"
"No regrets." She turned her face into his palm, pressing a kiss there. "Not a single one."
"Good." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Because I plan to make this a regular occurrence."
"Is that so?"
"Very so." He rolled onto his side, bringing them face to face. Their noses almost touched. "Every morning, if you'll let me. Waking up with you. Watching you come back from sleep. Being the first thing you see."
"That sounds…" She paused, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty, the old fear trying to resurface. "That sounds like a commitment."
"It is."
"We've only known each other a few weeks."
"I've known you were special since the moment Ellie introduced us." He let his hand drift down her arm, trailing warmth in its wake. "Longer, probably. I noticed you at the shop before that. You probably didn't see me—you were elbow-deep in sunflowers, talking to them while you arranged them. I stood outside the window for ten minutes like an absolute fool."
Her cheeks flushed. "I talk to the flowers."
"I know. It's adorable."
"It's probably a sign of impending madness."
"Then I'll happily go mad with you." He leaned in and kissed the tip of her nose. "I'm serious, Marigold. About this. About you. I know it's fast. I know you have every reason to be cautious. But I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not changing my mind."
She was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing absent patterns on his chest. He let the silence stretch, giving her space to think.
"My mother," she finally said, "has been married four times."
