Daine's lips pressed against his own—clumsy, and tasting of ale and whiskey, and irresistible. Despite himself, and despite all the things he had spent the long walk saying he would not do he kissed her back in earnest, pressing down and losing himself in her.

Her tongue flicked against his lips, coaxing him, and he tasted whiskey again—the sensation bringing him back to awareness. Back to the cold night air and the dark room where only his dreams had been before. Where the familiar pull in his belly and groin urged him forward. Where his friend looked at him with an expression he had never seen in her eyes—but was familiar with nonetheless. Where his very young was too far gone in lust and drink to know what she wanted.

He pulled back, regret battling with a shaky conviction.

"We should stop." He wondered if it sounded like a question to her as well. He hadn't even begun to get his breathing, let alone the rest of him, under control when she pressed against him again, lips meeting his neck and her words coming as murmurs between her lips and teeth and tongue working against his sensitive flesh.

"Why?" Her hands pulled at his shirt and slid beneath it. He shuddered when her fingers skimmed across his stomach, teasing at the waistband of his breeches. His hips rolled against her in an automatic response—pressing his arousal more firmly against her hip. She gasped—or maybe he did. It was getting difficult to keep thoughts straight.

"Daine," it was a plea. "We shouldn't be doing this."

"Don't worry." Her hand moved away from his stomach, travelling down. "I want to." She stretched to kiss him again, her lips barely making contact before he pulled away, grabbing her wrists with his hands and holding them away from him.

"I don't." His words came harsher than he meant them—cutting through the haziness of the night air and of the moment. This isn't how things were supposed to happen.

She blinked at him, shocked, and pulled her hands back, folding her arms against her chest. She looked so young in that moment—huddled in on herself, eyes over-bright.

"I'm sorry," she stammered and turned her head away as she was prone to do when she did not want him to see her cry. He reached out, wanting to soothe her, but she flinched and he backed off and he did not try again. "I should get to bed." She placed a hand on her door, her request for him to leave clear.

"Daine," He wanted to comfort her, wanted to ease the rejection he had inflicted on her. They could talk, in the morning, and see where things lay then. What was one more night alone? She cut him off, shaking her head.

"It really is late." She shut the door behind him and he let her, standing outside for a long moment—hoping she would open the door again. She didn't.

Numair made the long journey back to his room deep in a hazy thought—willing himself not to turn around and beg for another chance to share her bed that night. He tried not to think about what morning would bring and the lines that could not be uncrossed, and instead allowed himself to sink into the feeling of her lips on his own and her hand as it had moved against his breeches. If there was anything he knew it was that he had no business being so aroused in such cold and after so much liquor. He could not remember ever being so bewitched by another.

He clambered into bed that night with his thoughts on her, too drunk and in love to do anything but surrender to them.

Numair rose the next morning feeling considerably older than his years. Shame battled his hangover for the torture of the day as he dragged himself through his morning routine, only grudgingly leaving his room in the early hours in hopes of resolving things with Daine as quickly as possible.

The bright side of Numair's predicament is that he was far from the only one to fall afoul a rider's party. The usually boisterous mess-hall was much quieter, and emptier, that morning. Many of those who had bothered to show up sat stonily, nibbling carefully at what they thought they could stomach. To Numair's relief some absolute saint of a person had left more shutters than usual closed. Had it not been for this predicament with Daine he would still be buried in bed. It occurred to him that he was not sure he had actually ever attended breakfast the morning after a rider's celebration before.

He spotted his young friend from across the hall, relieved that he hadn't braved the stomach-churning walk down for nothing. He fetched food-a mild porridge-and tried to ignore the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was sure at this point it was more nerves that plagued him than the belly full of stale liquor.

He sat next to Onua, head pounding as she laughed at his condition, and offered a quiet 'good morning' which Daine returned without meeting his eye. Based on how determined she was to not look in his direction it was fair to say she remembered their exchange which was, truth be told, probably just a few hours prior.

"Well, some role models the two of you are," Onua eyed the mage, making no effort to soften her voice.

"I think you should be directing that statement at Sarge, Horse Mistress," Numair replied, just as sourly. "I blame him for at least half of what I drank last night. He's a horrible influence."

"I'm sorry, do the two of you require a chaperone to behave yourselves?"

Numair glanced at Daine just as she did the same to him, a blush that he was sure he mirrored spreading across her face.

"I wouldn't get too comfortable on that high horse," Daine shifted back to their friend, "Sarge has told me some stories about you."

"Has he?" Onua scoffed, but Daine lifted an eyebrow and continued.

"Not to mention what you've told me yourself. Seems you aren't as immune to his wiles as you'd have people think."

Numair's interest piqued at Daine's word choice, not to mention the sharp glance Onua threw at the younger woman.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Onua placed her cup onto her tray carefully, eyes focused on her empty plate. "I see some recruits who have also made horrible decisions and need to tend to their chores. I hope you both have a rotten day." She picked up her tray and took her leave, barking at any particularly hungover and unfortunate riders in her path to follow her for stable-duty.

Numair turned his attention back to Daine, who was furiously determined to remain focused on her meal. Truth be told, he would much rather do the same. For all of his telling himself that he wanted things to get back to normal as quickly as possible, he would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the glimmer of hope the previous night had ignited in him. Ever since he had left her rooms he had been pushing back thoughts of what would happen if that's what she did want. He didn't want that feeling to end. A tense moment passed before Numair cleared his throat and quietly interjected, "Daine."

She stopped, placing her utensils down carefully and taking a deep breath before meeting his eye. He was surprised to see them over-bright.

"Can I speak first?" There was a hesitance in her voice he wasn't familiar with. He gave a small nod, motioning for her to continue.

"I owe you an apology," her voice broke, almost imperceptible, and she looked around to see if anyone was listening, "a big one. What I did last night-" she shook her head.

"Magelet," he reached to cover her hand with his own but she moved away, placing her hands in her lap where she picked at her nails-a habit he had thought long gone.

"No, Numair," she shook her head, "If a man had pressed himself on me the way I did you-" she blushed furiously, shame evident in her entire body.

"That's not the same."

"But it is." She stared him down. "You didn't want to," she cleared her throat, and waved her hand ambiguously-not able to verbalize what had transpired between them and obviously paranoid that someone may overhear. "And I pressed on. That wasn't fair of me, or acceptable. I obviously wasn't prudent with drink and," she sighed, eyes threatening to spill embarrassed tears.

"Daine," he leaned forward, speaking softly, "there were two of us there last night and I would argue that both of us were imprudent. You have no reason to feel ashamed, sweetling." She gave him a look that left no doubt that his words were not as effective as he had hoped.

"Can you accept my apology, and if so can we just carry on as we did before?" She was truly concerned that he was the one who would be angry, a possibility that had not occurred to him. He looked at her, pausing to think over his next words.

"Is that what you want?" There were too many meanings to his words for him to process, much less express.

"Please," it was a plea if anything. He thought to reach out again, but didn't.

"Okay." He nodded, fighting to keep his disappointment from showing. When she did not look convinced he pressed on, "Whatever you want magelet. As long as you are alright, we are alright. I don't think there is anything to forgive, but I will accept your apology nonetheless."

She sighed, offering a half smile. She looked tired, and young. "I think I may try to get some more sleep. I told Onua I'd help with the mounts this afternoon and I barely made it down the hall this morning."

He laughed, "I completely understand. I'm seriously considering crawling into a stall and finding a nice pile of hay somewhere." That drew a small laugh from her-it was something. "Do you want me to walk you back?" Normally this question wouldn't make either of them think twice, but there was a beat of silence as Daine blushed and looked away.

"No, thank you. I think I'll just head back." She smiled at him and stood, turning away without a glance back. Numair took a moment to collect himself, disappointment and relief simultaneously thick in this throat. His walk back to the palace was once again pensive, and somehow lonelier than the night before.