Her smile softens. Becomes something almost shy. "Haven't had much reason to laugh before."
Before. Before here. Before us sitting by this river every night, building something I'm terrified to name.
I want to ask what that means. Want to know everything about her past, every wound that needs healing, every moment of joy that was stolen. Want to gather all of it into my hands and somehow make it better, make her whole again.
But pushing for information she's not ready to give will only drive her away. So I just nod and start another story, this one about Zurkar accidentally summoning a minor earth spirit during a ritual and having to apologize profusely while it rearranged his entire herb garden.
She's laughing again, that rough wonderful sound, when the first raindrop hits my face.
I blink, suddenly aware of how dark it's gotten. When did the stars disappear? When did those massive clouds roll in, blocking out the sky?
Another drop. Then another. Then the sky opens up and rain pours down in sheets, cold and immediate and absolutely drenching.
Serah gasps, scrambling to her feet. Her hair is already plastered to her face, tunic clinging to her frame.
I stand, grabbing her hand without thinking. "There's a cave. Come on."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't hesitate or question or demand explanations. Just lets me pull her after me through the darkness, trusting me to know where I'm going, trusting me not to hurt her.
The significance of that hits me somewhere vital. She's following me into the woods. Into a dark cave. Alone. This woman who cataloged exits and weapons her first week here,who flinched at every unexpected touch, who survived gods know what before finding us.
She trusts me.
The responsibility of that trust sits heavy and precious in my chest as I lead her up the path I've walked a hundred times. The cave entrance appears, a dark mouth in the cliff face barely visible through the downpour. I duck inside, pulling her after me into the sudden stillness.
Rain echoes outside, loud enough to drown out thought. We're both soaked through, water dripping onto the stone floor, breathing hard from the run.
"Gods," Serah mutters, wringing out her hair. "That came out of nowhere."
"Should've been paying more attention to the weather." I move deeper into the cave, grabbing dry wood from the stash I keep here. This isn't the first time I've used this place for shelter. "Fire'll warm us up."
She wraps her arms around herself, shivering slightly. The firelight from my tinderbox catches on water droplets clinging to her eyelashes, her throat, the hollow of her collarbone visible where her tunic has shifted.
I force my eyes away, focusing on getting the fire started. Forcing my magic back, away, locked down tight even as it strains toward her with desperate intensity.
The flames catch, flickering to life and throwing warm light across the cave walls. I add more wood carefully, building it up until heat starts pushing back the damp chill.
"Better?" I ask.
She moves closer to the fire, holding out her hands. "Yeah. Thanks."
Her clothes cling to her body, outlining every curve I've been trying not to notice for weeks. The firelight paints her in gold and shadow, highlighting the delicate structure of her face, theunconscious grace in how she moves. Her hair is darkened by water, hanging in thick waves down her back, and drops slide down her throat in paths I want to trace with my fingers.
I'm staring. Definitely staring. Should stop staring.
Can't stop staring.
She notices, glancing up with a questioning look. "What?"
I shake my head, words catching in my throat. Should deflect. Should make a joke about her looking like a drowned surri or something equally stupid that'll make her laugh and break this tension.
Instead what comes out is: "You're gorgeous."
The word falls between us, reverent and raw. Not my usual humor, not the careful banter we've built our conversations on. Just truth, whispered like prayer.
Her eyes widen. Something flickers across her face—shock, maybe, or disbelief. Like she's never heard that before. Like the concept itself is foreign.
"I mean—" I try to recover, to pull back from the vulnerability. Gods know she doesn't need another male gawking at her like so many have done before. "You're—the firelight—I'm not?—"
