Page 81 of Fierce Highland Magic

"This was your sister's."

I held it out to him.

"This is yours."

He did not take it.

His hands stayed at his sides, clenched. His jaw tightened. His eyes went bright with something he was not going to let fall.

"I cannot—"

"You can."

"If I take it, I will have to—"

"Feel it. Yes."

I did not lower my hand.

He looked at the pin. At the silver thistle that had belonged to someone he had saved and lost in the same breath.

Then he looked at me.

His eyes were the color of the Loch at midnight. Dark and still and holding something that could not be named.

I did not calculate the odds. Did not price the risk. Did not build an escape route into the moment.

I just stood there, hand extended, and let him see that I was not going to look away.

He reached for the pin.

His fingers brushed mine as he took it.

The touch was brief. Accidental. The kind of contact that happens when someone takes something from your hand.

Except it was not brief enough.

His fingers stayed. Just for a heartbeat. The warmth of his hand against my palm, the weight of the pin between us, and the silence of the Loch holding everything still.

I did not step back.

He did not pull away.

The distance between us closed the way a held breath ends—not all at once, but inevitably, the space thinning until there was no space left, until his mouth was close enough that his breath was warm against my lips.

I stopped calculating. Stopped pricing. The gap closed, and this was wanting unpriced.

His hand came up—not grabbing, just there, fingers light against my jaw. The kiss was brief. Warm. The kind of kiss that asks a question rather than answering one.

I did not know the answer.

I held still.

Then the light changed.

I pulled back. Looked toward the edge of the Loch, toward the market beyond.

The graying had advanced.