“I thought it would look good with your dark hair.”
Her fingers moved with steady confidence. They ghosted along his scalp, working through knots he hadn’t noticed. A wooden comb sifted through his hair, parting strands, while her fingers caught them up and twined them over one another. His shoulders relaxed without permission.
Then—
She paused.
Lifted a particular part of his hair where she’d braided her ribbon into it months ago. The strip of cloth was starting to fray, but he didn’t want to remove it. Not for anything.
“You kept it,” she said.
Of course I did.
He didn’t look back. Just kept his gaze on the fire.
“You told me it was a reminder,” he said. “So why would I take it off?”
He turned part of the way to catch her eyes. “Besides, you’ve been using my hair tie. Isn’t it a fair trade?”
She was silent for a long minute—her cheeks flushing in a way he longed for—and he faced forward again. Her hands picked up where they’d left off—slower now.
“Is it another weight I’ve made you carry?”
The fire popped as if in response to her words.
Resh didn’t answer right away. He reached up and covered her hand with his. Held it there, over his shoulder.
“No,” he said. “It’s something I chose to keep.”
A pause.
Then, softer—
“I don’t carry you, Auryn,” he said. “Only the fear oflosing you.”
She didn’t reply for a long time. Her hand slipped out of his, joining her other one as she kept braiding.
He felt the softest weight against his back. Her cheek, pressing into the space between his shoulder blades. Her breath was warm against his tunic. Her fingers toyed with the ribbon in his hair.
“I never expected to feel so lost when faced with your anger,” she whispered. “When you see me with Thessia, your emotions press inward.”
His heart gave a hard, echoing beat.
He wanted to tell her it hadn’t been anger. That it had been fear—raw and armored—lashing out in the only language it knew.
I fear losing you to your strange power.
To Krystopolis.
To others who know how to carry your fire better than I do.
But he said none of it.
He simply placed his hand over hers again.
They stayed that way for a while. Breath and silence. Warmth and firelight. Until the sharp edge between them—carved over days and nights—softened into something quieter.
“Kailorien, the ribbon will age, but my intent for it will not.”
