Page 76 of The Heart Trials

“You don’t matter to people like my father,” he says, shoulders drawn as if he’s bracing for impact.

“Then, why would we matter to you?”

He breaks our gaze, his jaw hardening for a second, before the softness in his expression returns. “Anything he’s for, I’m against.”

“That’s a half-truth at best.” He’s driven by more than rebellion. “It sounds awful, but how would you even know how to consider someone? You’ve never had to.”

“You make a lot of assumptions about my life. About me.”

I move closer to him. “I don’t want to. I want to know you. I want to understand how you know it’s okay to care.” As soon as I say it, something drains from me—like my own voice has betrayed me. “I just meant—”

“You don’t have to explain.” Caelus takes a strand of my hair, curling it around his finger. Then he presses the softest touch to my lips. This time I don’t flinch. This time I lean into it. “I want to know you too,” he says.

“Why? Why do you want to know me, Caelus?”

“Because you don’t treat me like a prince.”

I treat him like a person. Like anyone else.

“Because when I see the fight in you, it makes me want to fight too. You’re proof that I am not my father. Perhaps I am more like my mother. I try to be.” His mother has been dead since he was young. He must miss her terribly. Unlike me, he’s probably grieved her. Does that help him be able to talk about her now with such ease? I worry it’s too late for me to grieve, that the hole I feel for my own mother is like glowing embers, not hot enough to spark.

“Tell me more about her,” I say, thirsting to understand who Caelus really is. “Why’d she bring you here?”

“Only if you tell me more about yours.”

I tuck a strand behind my ear. “I don’t remember much.”

“I want to know whatever you’ll share.”

We walk, meandering through the underground tunnels of the Hollow, stopping at trinket shops to play with collar pins that neutralize Scents, flipping through tattered old books with some of the most incredible pre-rebellion stories. We sit in chairs made of threads that can swing from trees, we try baked apples and hand-rolled candies, we stop at a sound chamber where we can scream as loud as we want and no one can hear us.

And we talk.

About our mothers.

About the tournament.

About what life could look like if his father weren’t in power at all.

It feels reckless.

And dangerous.

But hopeful.

When we make our last stop for iced custard, there is a short line. I order one with red berries and chocolate. He orders a green one with nuts.

“Your mouth is purple.” He smiles.

“Your tongue looks like you’ve been eating grass.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, and I can’t help but join in. “Hold still,” he says, brushing something off of the tip of my nose. A smudge of ice cream. He offers it to me, and I lean in, licking it right off his fingertip without thinking. He blinks once, slowly, and then the corner of his mouth lifts. His breath catches and the playful spark in his eyes deepens into something warmer.

“Bold,” he says.

I tilt my head. “The ice cream?”

He steps closer, his hand lowering but his gaze never leaving mine. “No. You.”