Eve had never noticed how nice it was just to be with someone before.

She led the way, picking the slippery banks of the lake as she traced the path to her spot. She had found it by accident, having taken a wrong turn in the forest once in her youth; its knowledge was a coveted secret, to the point that even her father hadn't known its whereabouts. It was her haven, a place where her father, Mr. Cantabella, even the Shades couldn't find her. A part of her had wanted to keep it that way from Barnham as well, but it was overridden by the strangest stirrings of want.

She wanted to be alone with him here, in her special place where time meant nothing. No one would bother them, or even know where they were. The women of the bakery, the Storyteller, the knights—they all could be forgotten. It could just be the two of them. That was what she wanted most of all, what she couldn't stop thinking about after that rainy afternoon.

The lakeshore was marshy, old irrigation lines from the time before its existence as well as a few small branches that fed into it from the main river helping to keep the land damp, if not outright muddy. She was used to it, knowing all the good footholds and how to get over particularly tricky spots without falling into the water. Still, she went slower than usual, often turning to make sure her companion wasn't in danger of ruining his nice outfit. It was hard enough to look at him, unused to seeing him with his shirt buttoned up and tucked in, highlighting the tapering of his waist and stretching across his broad chest, his sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms. He looked oddly professional in a way she'd never seen before, like he belonged in some business ad with a suit jacket thrown casually over his shoulder. She was afraid she liked it a little too much.

"This way." She pointed to a deer path in the forest, barely distinguishable from the rest of the brush. He nodded and she turned into the trees, pressing forward with her usual authority. She knew the way like the back of her hand, eyes picking out old landmarks and new dangers from the still wet ground. Thorns plucked at the hem of her dress, but they weren't abundant in this part of the wood and she was able to avoid them easily.

She heard him behind her, lagging in the denser shrubbery and often stopping to shift the basket and quilt to keep them out of the thicker brush. She pressed ahead, knowing he would follow, raising her eyes to look at the sun streaming through the leaves, droplets gleaming and dancing in the movement from their foray into the untouched wood.

She reached the clearing well before him and stopped to look around, habitually making sure that there were no signs of activity, of anyone finding her private area. Everything looked in order; it was a little overgrown, but that was because she'd been too preoccupied to visit lately. It was as pristine a place as ever, a perfect oasis of nature in an otherwise wild wood.

One of the branches bent here on its way back to the river, the broad island rocks forming a small natural waterfall that fell into a clear, rippling pool. More slabs made a shallow precipice that stretched over the pool, covered in a soft green moss that—when not dampened with rainwater—made a wonderful bed. The trees surrounding the bend were young ones, no larger around than a man's wrist and grouped so closely that no one could peer through the trees without coming within a line of direct sight. There were wildflower clusters and waving wheatgrass, the only sounds the soft roar of the waterfall and the twittering of birds in the trees all around.

"Whoa." She turned to see she was finally joined, Barnham standing in place and looking around at the clearing with wide eyes. "I never knew a place like this existed in all of Labyrinthia," he said in an awed voice, walking over to peer into the bottom of the clear pool.

"I'd like to keep it that way," she answered briskly, taking the quilt from him. It sounded harsh, and she quickly cleared her throat to add, "I mean… just between us." He nodded eagerly.

"I'd be honored to share this secret with you." She turned to spread the quilt over the moss, feeling her cheeks redden at his words. He always made the simplest things sound like something so… over the top. And he was entirely sincere about it, as well. It was almost too much.

"Here." She sat down, motioning for him to do the same. The mist from the waterfall rose beside her, covering her skin in cool droplets that helped to bring the heat from her face; it lasted just long enough for him to plop down beside her, close enough that she could lean against him if she so chose, and her blush returned tenfold.

"S-shall we eat?" He sounded nervous, busying himself with the contents of the wicker basket and bringing out a seemingly endless amount of baked goods. There was more than enough for two people; they could have fed a garrison full of hungry knights, and had some left over for the next day. Sandwiches, pies, breads, pastries, jars of jam and containers of imported water, all coming out of a basket that seemed too small to be able to hold it.

"I doubt we'll be able to finish that," she said hesitantly, staring at the growing spread filling up the quilt in front of them, spilling onto the moss. "And I know how Mrs. Eclaire is about leftovers." She had seen the straightforward woman's rule on leftover food firsthand at the bakery a good handful of times, not mentioning Espella's harried whispers about not saying anything to condemn herself. Apparently, the baker was notorious for shoving copious amounts of bread on anyone who claimed to be able to eat it, willing or not.

"Then it's only fair that you be allowed to keep any leftovers." He sat the final jar of preserves—boysenberry, by Espella's crooked handwriting—on the last empty corner of the quilt and leaned back, tucking his hands under his crossed legs. "I can't take them back to the bakery, and 'tis fresh, so it should keep for a while at least."

"That sounds fine." Neither of them reached for the food. "Mrs. Eclaire means well."

"That she does." He chewed his lower lip, casting sidelong glances at her. "Sometimes she can be fastidious, but 'tis all done with loving intention."

"It's proof of how much she cares." She kept her hands in her lap, picking at her cuticles. "Her enthusiasm for the bakery, keeping everyone well fed and healthy; it gives her a sense of self-worth."

"That's a very cold way of looking at it," he replied bluntly. A fly buzzed near one of the meat pies and he shooed it away before tugging self-consciously at his collar.

"I… you're right." She picked at a stray thread. "It's how my father would have said it."

"The alchemist." He said it as though he still didn't quite believe the revelation. "I never asked, but: you must have been close to him." She looked down, feeling the same odd cocktail of childish affection, exasperation, and guilt that always left a lump in her throat at the mere mention of her father.

"Once," she admitted softly. "We, um… we had a row. I don't even remember what it was about now," she continued, the words pouring out of her like a dam broken. "It was something insignificant, but he moved to live in his workshop and we didn't talk for the longest time. Hurt pride, I suppose. And then he—well, you know the rest."

"Oh."

"He tried to send me a letter one time, about a month before…." She sat up, swallowing hard, but the lump only seemed to grow. "I never opened it. I threw it into the fireplace." Her eyes burned at the admission, and she realized that she'd never told anyone. No one, aside from Lettie Mailer, her father, and herself, had known about the letter. It was one of her biggest regrets in life, terrible in the fact that she could never go back and right it. "If I'd replied… or just read it… then maybe…."

"Forgive me." She looked up at him in surprise. He shifted uncomfortably. "I shouldn't have brought it up; I've upset you."

"No, no." She cleared her throat, hearing the ragged edge of tears in the words. "I've never had anyone to talk to about it before. I… Espella can listen, but she doesn't understand." She couldn't stop the twinge of envy, or the rush of guilt that followed. "She was lucky enough to get the chance I didn't; she made things right with her father."

"I—perhaps 'tis not my place to say this, as I don't remember my parents at all." He licked his lips. "But I remember that trial like 'twas yesterday." He blushed. "Because I had lost twice in a row. I don't' think that's ever happened before. But I remember that Jean read the letter aloud, to the entire Courtroom." He paused. "Were you there?"

"No, I was out with the Shades. I didn't expect that trial to take such a turn." She shook her head. "I was actually on your side; as proficient an attorney Mr. Wright is, I thought he'd just gotten lucky."

"Jean read the letter aloud. To everyone. And I remember exactly what it said." He leaned in, only slightly. "Even at the end, Sir Belduke was thinking of you. He said that you were his first concern. He was worried about leaving you all by yourself."

"I'm not by myself, though—" She stopped, realizing his meaning even as he nodded enthusiastically.

"Right! You've got Espella, and Mrs. Eclaire, and even Mr. Cantabella. You're not alone at all."

"I think you're missing someone," she chuckled. Of all the people, he didn't include himself?

"Huh? Oh, Jean, of course."

"No, I meant you." He flushed.

"O-oh, I was merely speaking of friends," he amended quickly, looking away.

"You're not my friend?" His shoulders slumped, grin becoming more nervous and less genuine.

"We're merely friends?" She didn't know that such a tiny voice could come out of such a loud mouth.

"Zacharias… we're on a date, and you still feel the need to ask that question?" He turned even darker, fidgeting in place.

"You could… you could always change your mind," he noted quietly. "I-I mean, I wouldn't blame you—things haven't gone so smoothly thus far, and—and—" He fell into puzzled silence, nose crinkling as he tried to sort out his feelings. Like that'll ever happen, you big oaf. She wanted to say it aloud, with the same offhanded ease that Espella would have used, but was afraid of him taking it the wrong way. The last thing she needed was him thinking that she was only on a date to mock him.

"Trust me, if I decide to change my mind, you'll be the first to know." And that was any better?! Her brain screeched at her, astounded at the lack of filter on her words today. She fumbled, trying to think of something to add to appease him more, but to her surprise he seemed to brighten up.

"At the very least, I'd like a performance review and a formal letter of recommendation. Perhaps a severance package."

"This isn't a job!" She frowned, even though she knew he was only teasing. "What, do you expect me to highlight your extensive abilities for the next woman?"

"If you find them to your liking." He smirked. "I'm very proficient."

"At what?" she scoffed. The corner of one brow twitched, smirk widening as he inclined his head just enough; he stared at her in such a way that his meaning couldn't be mistaken.

"Shall I demonstrate?" His voice lowered to a rumble; her heart tripped over itself trying to increase its speed, sputtering before thudding loudly in her ears. Every thought she'd had since he'd kissed her came rushing back, her fingers fisting in her skirts as her mouth went dry.

She made a little sound, not sharp enough to be a gasp but not an inhale either; he seemed to come back to himself with a start. He sat up, arms waving wildly as he scooted back to what he declared a safe distance, putting space between them as fast as the quilt's friction would allow.

"I-I-I didn't mean—I wasn't suggesting—I shou-aah!" He moved too far back and wavered, legs scrambling for some hold on the smooth quilt. With wide eyes, he tipped back and she felt his fingers brush her hand, too late as he flipped heels over head off the rock and into the pool below. A moment of panic had her scrambling as well, off balance and afraid that she'd follow him down before lunging and managing to save the boysenberry preserves— at least— from making the descent. A good quarter of the food wasn't as lucky, however, vanishing over the side and splashing into the water below.

She leaned over the precipice, afraid of what she'd find; she'd never been in the pool, and despite its clear waters she had no true idea of its depth. She let out a sigh of relief as she saw her date climbing to his feet in the waist-high water, holding his arms out as he stared down at his sodden clothing. He looked up at her, a good two arm's lengths above him, and let out a little groan before running his hands through his wet hair. She wasn't sure which of them blushed harder, her face hot enough that sticking it into the waterfall sounded wonderful.

"Here, let me help you up," she called, reaching both arms down and hoping that he wasn't too heavy to lift. He shook his head, motioning for her to move back before jumping and grabbing hold of the ledge. She fell back as he pulled himself up, arms straining through his drenched shirt as he rolled his legs back onto the rock. "Are you alright?" He was still red from his hair to his collar, even the tips of his ears flaming in his mortification.

"I'm fine." He wiped uselessly at his face, unable to even look in her direction.

"Good." She reached out without thinking, pushing more of his bangs off his forehead. His hair was dark when wet, falling down around his face in a manner that was different, but not ugly. "Now, what did you go and do a fool thing like that for?"

"I, er—you wanted to take things slow." He sniffed, still rubbing at his nose with equally wet hands. "I, uh—ugh."

"Just because—of all the things!" she laughed, unable to help herself. That was why? He didn't join her in her mirth, and even managed a relatively cute pout despite looking half-drowned. "You can flirt with me, you know. I'm not afraid of you."

"F-flirt!?" he choked. "That wasn't flirting, that was… something else!"

"What's flirting, if that wasn't it?" He looked startled at her question, but thought a moment before answering.

"Milady, you're looking rather lovely this evening." He smiled with a wink. "The firelight brings out the color of your eyes."

"I'm glad you didn't think to try that one in Court," she sighed after a minute of heavy silence. "I think you should stick with the 'something else'." He blinked, brow creasing. Guess I have to prove it. She moved in with a coy smile. "Flirting, Sir Barnham, is, 'You should take off that wet shirt before you catch a chill.'" He leaned back onto his hands, retreating as she came closer than they'd been before. Their eyes met, his staring steadily into hers without any clue as to his thoughts. After a moment he cleared his throat, nodding down at his chest.

"Can you undo the buttons? My hands are wet; they'll slip." The tension rose between them, hot and thick until she was sure the water ought to have been steaming off his clothing. She rose onto her knees, reaching out with barely trembling hands. She fumbled at the top button, feeling his eyes on her and growing hotter. It didn't help that his shirt was already translucent, white fabric sticking to his muscles and showing shadowy edges of scars and skin.

"Here." His hands covered hers, warm and damp, curling over her fingers as they stopped fighting the button. She shuffled a little closer, his legs automatically sliding apart to compensate even as he made a warning sound in his throat. "Be careful, or your dress will get wet." Don't care. She couldn't bring herself to speak, though, not with the heat pressing down on her from every direction and closing up her throat.

His hands slowly pressed themselves together, her fingers caught up between them, and he lifted them from his chest as carefully as if they'd been some sort of fragile insect. Cupping them, he inspected her hands silently before bending his head and running his lips over her knuckles, then her fingertips. She shivered, the barest touch of his mouth sending sparks up her arms; she flexed them under his ministrations, turning them over and allowing him to kiss the palms as well before running them along either side of his jaw to tilt his head.

This was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? It was just him and her, and though it hadn't happened anywhere near as easily as she'd originally hoped… well, here they were now, right? She wanted his mouth on more than just her hands, as noble and chivalrous an act as it might be—not that it felt chivalrous, the way his parted lips had tickled her.

She tugged his head towards her gently, forcing him to sit up until he was once again nearly taller than she was, despite her being hunched up on her knees. She ignored the dampness on her long sleeves as she rested her forearms on his shoulder, her hands boldly reaching to play with the wet hair at the nape of his neck. She felt him shiver when she traced a finger down his spine, and smiled at the thought that the cold water had nothing to do with thatchill. The pressure was nearly unbearable, her mind begging for her, or him, someone to move, to do something other than stare.

His eyes were dilated, lips parted as he watched her. She felt strangely loose and free, the normally reserved part of her silent, or at least holding her embarrassment at bay. She was still shy of touching another person like this, but it was a shyness that only caused her to move slowly, rather then deter her entirely. She moved one of her hands, wanting to feel his mouth again but not wanting to ask him to kiss her. She instead ran her finger lightly along his lower lip, just feeling him, breath hitching when his hand circled her wrist, holding her still.

"Is it alright to… to kiss you?" he mumbled around her finger, the words tickling. She nodded, more relieved that he wanted the same thing she did. He leaned in, head tilting as he slid his fingers up from her wrist to lace through hers. In the distance she heard a noise, the sound filtering through her thoughts without meaning until, slower than usual, she recognized it's significance. Thunder? She looked up, thwarting him without meaning to so that he kissed the underside of her chin instead. He sat back, confused, and then looked up as well when a louder, closer peal rumbled.

"Another storm?" she muttered, looking around at the food. They hadn't even had their picnic: not that either of them were thinking much about the meal. "We better pack up. It's going to rain." She could see— now that she was paying attention— that the sky was growing increasingly cloudy.

"What does it matter?" he huffed. "I'm already wet." She glared at him, lips pursed.

"Yes, let's kiss in a lightning storm, next to water and surrounded by trees. At least we'll go out of this world together." He frowned, but reluctantly let her hand go as she turned for the basket.

"'Twould be an interesting obituary."