A/N:
For those who are curious about the dress: message me and I'll send you the link.
Let's earn that M rating.
"The Earl of Begonia," Talia said sweetly as he deftly wound her onto the dance floor, "To what do I owe the honor?"
He smiled to her—charming and pleasant, the mask of those who spend far too much time in the public eye. "Really, now. No friend of Ranavi's should have to deal with titles. Call me Collum."
Talia sparkled a smile back. Of course she knew who he was. He was the reason she was here.
He lowered his lips just beside her ear, though careful not to touch as they still waltzed across the floor. It felt delicate and intimate, exactly as intended.
"Did you know that you just danced with an incredibly powerful mage?" he said in a low voice, and she could hear the conspiratorial smile behind the words. She sucked in a breath and turned her head about, to all the world a courtier searching for her point of gossip.
"Really?" she sweetly breathed back.
He chuckled and straightened, holding her close. "Laxus, the elusive lightning mage of the Fairy Tail Guild. My court mages had heard rumblings of his return. There was some fiasco a number of years ago that caused many of the guild members to disappear from my reports. It's good to be able to confirm his return myself."
"What in the world could he be doing here?" Talia wondered.
Collum pulled her into a twirl with such smoothness and regained her place with such effortless strength that she temporarily lost herself in the beauty of the movement.
"I assume he's here to watch over me," he said it flippantly, but there was annoyance under the tone. As if it irked him to be thought of as a threat.
"Ah," Talia breathed, "Ranavi told me about your dalliance together." She hadn't, but Talia knew the general points of interest. Collum shook his head and something like regret flashed through his eyes. But then that charming façade was back.
"Then you know there is no real cause for concern." He squeezed her hand lightly and looked toward Ranavi and her fiancé on the balcony across the hall. "She will find no threat in me. Besides," that charming smile turned conniving, "Who said I was giving her up at all?"
Talia forced herself to focus on the conversation, though the dance was enchanting and pulling her into its dream-like flow. Her brows furrowed and she looked to him quizzically. Becoming an adulterous consort was risky.
"That is. . . a potentially dangerous move, your Grace."
He hummed in acknowledgement, and for a moment his nonchalance turned thoughtful.
"Sometimes," he said slowly and held her closer, "a lifeline and a noose are made of the same thread. But I would not sever it for the world." A sad smile flickered across his face.
He loved her. He truly, painfully, loved her. But he was a rank below hers, and for her people she could not settle. Not even when she wanted to. Talia gave a sad smile of understanding.
"She should have had a career," he said, altering the trajectory but not changing the subject. And his eyes gave an appreciative glance over Talia. It would have irritated her if not for the fact that he was very much appreciating the dress and not necessarily the woman wearing it. "I know her designs anywhere. She's been toying with some of the lines of this gown style for weeks. If she was anyone else, she would have a veritable empire in the high fashion world by now." He sighed, and for a moment Talia felt anger in him; felt how his hand gripped slightly tighter, how he glared at the beautiful fabric. "She shouldn't have to give up her dreams and her talent for a life she was born into."
"She said something similar about you."
Talia started to put the pieces together from the moment he looked so approvingly at her dress. The reports she was given said he was a tinker and inventor—small, beautiful little devices of gold or silver with simple mechanisms to give the trinket a life of its own. A ladybug of ruby and diamond whose little legs could twitch about on its stand, a clock with an owl atop whose sapphire eyes would blink the number of the hour. Silly little glamorous things. Charming things. Things that would make a lady smile.
They shared that love, a love of creation. His in tiny gears and shining stones, hers in fabric and line. It wasn't surprising that he would fight for her in his own way. And from the glances Talia had caught of the duchess to him all night, it seemed that the feeling was mutual.
She felt the dance turn to its tessitura, and Collum held her close. She was acutely aware of his attention—the broad chest just inches from hers, the intent behind his warm brown eyes. To have a man's attention like this. . . she didn't realize how badly she wanted someone to look at her like that. He angled his face down to her slightly, and tipped her chin up to look fully into those warm eyes. Something in the back of her mind told her to back out, that this wasn't right, but the music and the dance and just the feeling of being seen. . .
"It was good to dance with you, Banshee of Fairy Tail."
She blinked rapidly and the spell was broken. A knowing, sly smile crossed his lips.
"I—" but he was gone, spun back into the masses as someone who knows the bends of every current and ebb of a crowd. She was left alone and dazed on the dance floor.
Exactly as he intended for her to be. She felt a flush of irritation tint her cheeks. He played me. Apparently, Ranavi wasn't the only one who viewed these gatherings as an opportunity to play chess with the pawns of her court.
They needed to show the court that he had moved on. . . and Ranavi put her in this ridiculous dress. . . Now it wasn't the irritation of a pining courtier that tinted her cheeks. That was shame and anger. She played right into their game. Chess, indeed. Her strides were long and strong as she stormed off the dance floor and to Bickslow, who was now standing quietly in the corner by one of the many open French doors. His closed helm gave nothing away, his stance straight and patient—just another guard on duty. Talia snatched a full glass of red wine and drained half of it.
"The Earl not your type of dance partner?" Bickslow teased, smile crinkling his cheeks below the helm. Talia shook her head.
"I suddenly remembered why I never really liked knights in shining armor," she grumbled, "There's a lot of ugliness that goes into keeping it clean and untarnished. Give me a man in the trenches any day—dents and dirt and all."
"It does take a good bit of preening to keep this shit clean," said Bickslow with a laugh. Talia cracked a smile and took another long sip of wine.
The evening spun on long into the deepest night—until the musicians had spent their books and the kitchen had all but burned through its wine. The moon was high and the stars bright when Ranavi made her exit.
She caught Talia's arm on her way out.
"A sound mage, if I recall correctly," she stated. Talia gave her a tight-lipped nod. It may have been hours, but she didn't forget the pieces the Duchess-to-be played. Ranavi's smile was broad. A spider at the center of her web, and everyone danced at her cue. "You and your team are dismissed for the evening, as I am retiring to my quarters with my fiancé."
Ranavi stepped past Talia with a wave of her hand. "Captain Tryst is in the process of alerting the rest of your team. Enjoy the evening. If what I hear about sound mages is true, there's a place not far from here that you'd appreciate: Miller's. Take the stairs to the basement. But I'm sure you'd figure that out when you got there." She glanced back to Talia, those ice eyes too keen. "Learn to enjoy the complexities in life, little mage. It's a far more entertaining game when you do."
Talia didn't want to say anything to the woman. The burn of being played as a puppet in strings burned too fiercely. But there was something in that sidelong glance, the proud line of her shoulders. They were too familiar to stay truly angry.
"You remind me of my cousin," Talia found herself saying, despite Ranavi being numerous paces away now.
Ranavi paused and turned to glace back toward the mage, those blue eyes the same angle of brutal intelligence that Talia knew so well. Is this what Niamh would be in another life? Ruthless, powerful, but good in her own way?
"Niamh Mordha of Blackthrone. You wouldn't be able to pull her for extended periods, but she would be a worthwhile advisor and confidant. And—" Talia gave just as brutal a smile as Ranavi had ever seen, "I think you'd finally find a decent friend in this duplicitous world you so enjoy."
Ranavi held he gaze for a moment. She gave a light hum of contemplation. And then she walked the rest of the way down the hall.
Miller's, it turned out, was a place for music of a different sort: jazz.
The bouncing bass line skipped across the cobbled street and nuzzled up into every seam and crevice. Talia trotted ahead, a childish smile wide across her face. Her cheeks were warm from the wine, and the cool night air felt heavenly against her blush. The music was intoxicating—a saxophone wrapped its way around the thumping bass while a mellow drum line supported a high-flying clarinet as he slid through the octaves and harmonies. The Thunder Legion watched her bound over to the door of the jazz club and wave them over. Talia already felt herself bouncing on the balls of her feet. She felt light. Her body swayed along the melody, arms stretching wide and eyes closed as she twirled in the lamplight.
"Is she. . .?" Evergreen giggled. The boys smiled, and the happily twirling woman transfixed Laxus. He saw nothing but her, the silvery blue of her gown catching the warm light of the streetlamp as it twirled off the ground.
"Sound drunk," Freed's voice was soft and thoughtful. This was her—this was their Talia. It had been mostly her who returned from Blackthorne before the Exams, but she was missing. . . this. The ecstatic joy that she brought. The dancing around the kitchen as she cooked, her smile as she sang along with songs she was far too young to know. She had welcomed him into the guild with that smile. Even when he stubbornly kept to himself, her kind look and encouraging words coaxed him out of his isolation, and he was always the better for it.
Cool, pale fingers grasped his hand and pulled him into the club. Freed couldn't help the smile that came to his face. Apparently, he wasn't done dancing tonight. Down the stairs they went; the hallway was narrow and the old brick vibrated and pulsed, catching him in between. He could feel the sound jitter his bones and resonate in his chest with a warm glow. The underground club opened up around them—they were clearly overdressed, but no one much seemed to care. Wooden tables and chairs were strewn throughout the room, and booths lined the weathered brick walls. In one back corner sat the bar and in the other was the band. Talia dragged him straight to the dance floor where a few people were haphazardly jostling. Her laugh bubbled along the rhythm in the air.
"Swing with me!" her eyes shone in the low blue light and twinkled across a thousand galaxies.
"I'm afraid it's not my best—"
"Who cares! Just dance!" She put his hand on her hip and ushered him onto the dance floor. A moment behind, he recaptured his feet and turned her around the space. He felt the warmth of the bass plucking at his heart, and this mellower saxophone wrapped around him in humming friction. Lacrima speakers hung all around the dance floor and encased him in the colorful sounds. Their dance was basic, but energetic. They bounced and bopped and twirled their way around the wood-paneled floor. People began to back out of the way to watch them. There was another couple who were far better dancers, but Freed and Talia had more fun.
Laxus, Bickslow, and Evergreen descended the dark stairs and looked around for their friends as the room opened up before them. Talia and Freed were already dancing. Evergreen could just make out the couple's bright hair colors from between the thickening wall of people around the dance floor. She hummed with a sly smile.
"Well, I think I'm due for another drink. Bix? Laxus?" The boys nodded and followed her to the bar, where they each placed drink orders—Evergreen being sure to order more wine for Talia and a mojito for Freed. A sound drunk and alcohol drunk Talia was something she very much wanted to see. The drinks appeared and the three went to the wall to claim a booth. They could see the dance floor from here, and it was almost quiet enough to have a normal conversation.
Laxus swirled his scotch. This was his last one of the night—he needed to make sure he herded his idiots back to the guest house in one piece. Evergreen didn't hold her liquor nearly as well as she thought she did, and Bickslow had a bad habit of getting sidetracked. Though, whatever pair of long legs he ran off with during the night wasn't Laxus's problem. Lord knows they all had their escapades when away on jobs. No, the problem with Bix is that he'd just keep drinking until he did find someone to go home with. Which could mean some very drunk walks back to hotels. Laxus gave a huff of a laugh at a memory: carrying Bickslow over his shoulder as the sieth mage blathered on about the colors and tones of souls.
The song changed. The bouncing crowd at the dance floor quelled as people caught their breath. Laxus saw Freed and Talia step off and look around for their friends. He lost himself in her, again. Soft blues and deep purples painted the inside of the club, and they caught the silver threads of Talia's dress. The effect of the fabric and the light shone around her in almost the color of her magic—a silver halo catching just the hint of her silhouette. The shimmer between sunlight and moonbeams. She was stunning. The lighting shifted-he didn't know if it was the dark blue and warm orange hues that gave her that glow or just her own soul ringing. She was flushed, and her dazzling smile shone as she caught sight of their table. Her hair had begun to fall from its pins, the twisting tendrils dusted gently against her collarbones and the soft skin of her neck. Some of the smaller curls twisted and stuck to the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and base of her neck. In the low light, the gown was even more daring against her pale skin, the cutouts and tempting slit seemed to draw his eye—daring him to ghost his fingers along her exposed flesh.
A pointed shoe kicked his shin and he was jolted out of his thoughts. He glared at the culprit; Evergreen's glasses flashed in the dull light and a devilish smile grew on her lips.
"What was that for?" he grumbled.
"To get your mind out of the gutter while we're still in public," she teased.
"Y'all looked like you were having fun out there!" Bickslow called to Freed and Talia as they neared the table. Evergreen and Freed seemed to catch each other's eye surreptitiously. Freed not-so-subtly pushed Talia into the booth next to Laxus while he joined Bix and Ever on the other side. Laxus was far too aware of how dangerously high the slit in Talia's dress crept as the fabric peeled away from her thigh when she sat. He took a sip of his drink and tried not to think about the warmth radiating from her.
Talia gratefully reached for the glass of red wine Evergreen pushed toward her, and took a large sip. She didn't notice Evergreen's smile broaden.
"So how, exactly, does getting sound drunk feel?" prodded Bickslow. He'd always wanted to ask, but he was usually the first one plastered and never remembered, anyway.
Talia giggled and reached her hands out across the table. "I think I can show you. Gimme your hands." Bickslow did as he was told, and laid his hands flat on Talia's upturned palms. She closed her eyes, but never lost her smile.
"W-woah!" exclaimed the sieth mage, his eyes open and a laugh bubbling up his throat. His tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. "That's so weird." He turned his head and looked all around. The Thunder Legion watched him with curiosity. "It's like. . . everything is pulsing. The air is laughing."
"Colors shimmer and hum, and the vibrations dance under your skin with the music." Talia gave a tipsy smile and released Bickslow's hands. He pulled them back and examined them closely. But, finding nothing had changed, looked back up to Talia.
"Girl, you're damn close to drunk," he jeered with a playful smile, "Better keep an eye on how much booze Evergreen shoves your way." Evergreen huffed in false-indignation. The group laughed.
"Well, cut me off after this glass, then," Talia replied, and scooched her way out of the booth, "I'm going to grab some water—anybody need anything?" The group responded in the negative and she walked toward the bar.
Laxus suddenly found himself the center of attention. "What?" he snapped, defensively.
"We're all planning to have a rather late night out," Evergreen said pointedly, "But you should make sure Talia gets home before too much longer. You know she's not really the late-night type." Laxus raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yeah? She seems pretty fine to me."
"Don't play dumb, Laxus," reprimanded Freed as he crossed his arms over his chest, "You've been watching us dance all evening, and I'm pretty sure I wasn't the focus of your attention."
Laxus said nothing. There was nothing to say—Freed was right.
"And now we're telling you to take her home. The empty home that it will be for the next few hours," said Bickslow.
"For goodness sake, Laxus," Evergreen huffed, "Just take the opportunity. Either something happens or it doesn't, but good god the tension between you two is suffocating." Freed crackled a laugh at Ever's exasperation, and Bix broke out into tipsy giggles. Laxus smiled lightly. They weren't wrong. He was glad they were there to guide him out of his own stupidity.
"Fine. I'll at least make sure she gets home safe before too long," he cocked an eyebrow at his team, "But you all aren't allowed to come home empty-handed either." A wicked smile crept across his face "Either each of you brings someone home or you spend the night in someone's bed."
Freed went a bit pale. Hookups were not his forte. But luckily his startled face wasn't the center of attention—
"I don't know, man," Bix teased, "Evergreen keeps mumbling something about missing a big brute back home." The brunette's face turned scarlet and she shrieked something about how that wasn't a thing at all and she was just daydreaming—wait, not that wasn't—
Talia returned with a laugh and a glass of water. As she slid into her spot next to Laxus, Evergreen recovered from her fluster. She stood abruptly.
"Freed, I want to dance. Bix, move and find your own dance partner." Freed and Bickslow shuffled out of the booth and the three made their way to the dance floor as the band started up an old swing standard. Talia chuckled.
"Do I even want to know?"
Laxus rumbled a laugh and shook his head, "Just more of the usual."
Talia took a sip from her water, the glass beaded against the cold liquid. "Well, I'm glad I've got a chance to sit. Now that I've stopped spinning, the drink and music is starting to wear me down." Laxus raised an eyebrow.
"Calling it a night already? C'mon, that's lightweight even for you," he teased. Her bare thigh was just a hair's breadth from him, and he had to remind himself not to let his hands wander. But she was sitting awfully close. He could feel the warmth radiating off her; the rosemary and mint from her hair sharp against the mellow scent of her perspiration. Maybe one of these days he'd get to run his hands through the gold and red strands, watching them play and shimmer in the light. . . But not now. It was just the club and the company. He wouldn't do anything without her consent, even at the risk of missing a cue. But damn if he didn't want to.
She sent him a playful glare out of the corner of her eye, but something about his look caught her—the easy, teasing smile, and those eyes. . . blue as the sky was wide. There was something there she couldn't pinpoint. It might've been the music, it might've been the drinks, but the world around her faded into a low hum. She was acutely aware of how close they were, how easy it would be to lay her hand on his, to reach out and undo those buttons at his throat. Buttons at his throat. Empathetic imagination wrenched her out of the moment; she swallowed and took a steadying breath as she turned her gaze back to the dance floor. The music had reached her again, dipping under her skin to nuzzle against her bones.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the ceiling, shimmying into the hard, wooden booth back. But no matter where she shuffled, nothing was quite comfortable. She peeked out of her right eye to the blonde next to her and seamlessly scooted in to rest her back against his arm and shoulder. It was a small move, so maybe he wouldn't notice. . .
He noticed. Laxus's eyebrow perked at the feeling of her warm back against his arm. She was turned away from him and watching their friends on the dance floor. The world slowed. There was only the two of them—a rare moment of quiet amidst the raucous room. He couldn't imagine that leaning against his arm was comfortable, and he could fix that, but it was risky. Did he want to make that much of a move? Would she even realize it was one? He finished his scotch. It burned on the way down and the smoky flavor lingered on his tongue for a moment before sliding down his throat.
"C'mere." His voice rumbled slightly lower in his chest than usual. His left arm snaked around her waist and pulled her back into him. He leaned against the cool brick wall at his back, and turned his torso toward Talia. His grip pulled her flush against him as much as he reasonably could. His hand rested above her right hip, palm flat and strong against the bare skin of the cutout. She was soft.
A strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her backwards. He was warm. The broad chest at her back radiated a welcoming heat, and Talia felt herself relax into him. The weight at her waist was oddly comforting—he held her just enough to be possessive, but not restricted. Had she been sober, she would've expected more of an anxious dialogue in her own head, but she found none. Whether it be the alcohol, the jazz, or the company, there was no nervous rumblings. It was just. . . comfortable. She closed her eyes again and let herself lean into him. His calloused fingers dusted light patters on her exposed skin; it sent a shiver up her side, but she wanted more of it. She wanted all of it.
She gave a low hum, but it came out as almost a purr. He felt her relax into him and let out the breath stuck in his throat. His fingers traced lazy lines on her pale skin, not really intended, but as much exploration as he'd allow himself. There was a small ridge of a scar under her ribs. The fabric of her dress was cool against his arm. He looked on to their friends on the dance floor—Freed had evidently found a more competent dancing partner than Evergreen, and moved around the floor effortlessly. Laxus almost wished he'd taken the Old Man's advice on dance lessons when he was younger.
The solo saxophone caressed Talia through every trough and peak of vibrato. Her entire body was humming with happiness. The wine warmed her veins, the music danced along under her skin, they would make a good night any day. She lazily reached out and grasped her wine glass. She brought it back slowly and all but finished it. A little more should be fine, she wouldn't jump to the spins quite yet.
The low light and meandering melodies cast a delightful haze over Talia. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed that she hadn't checked the shadowed corners for his face; and the thought made her happy. It was an odd happiness—freeing and melancholy at the same time. A heaviness in her chest lifted, and she felt she could breathe for the first time in a long while. It was as if she was in a dream: too weightless to be real but too solid to be fantasy. And in this feeling, there were no bad ideas. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back onto his shoulder with a contented sigh.
If the night ended now, Laxus would be happy. The feeling of her weight against him, the warm hum of her magic tickling through his chest, and goddamn that view. With her head tilted back on his shoulder, her slim neck looked impossibly long, and the dips and ridges of her collarbones caught the light alluringly. And he had a practically unobstructed view down her dress—though, truly, the pieces were bound tightly to her skin. He wanted to trace his fingers down the lines of her throat, dusting over the bony notch where her collarbones met.
"And why are you not out there finding yourself an evening companion?" her voice was a husky, liquored hum, and her green eyes opened playfully. He caught her eye and smirked. "Everyone to find a bed tonight?"
"Seems like a reasonable verdict," his smile danced in his blue eyes, "Everyone can use a good night off once in a while."
Talia hummed.
"Good. Night. Off," each word felt funny on her tongue, "Haven't had one of those in a long while."
Laxus raised an eyebrow, "Can't imagine you'd have a problem finding a bed this evening if you wanted one," he teased, but he felt his chest clench oddly at the thought of her going off to bed with a stranger. He unconsciously held her closer. She closed her eyes again.
"I have a feeling you wouldn't have any difficulty either," she prodded.
"Nah. Not tonight. Who else is going to make sure you idiots all get home in one piece?" His voice was cocky. She wanted to throw that cockiness off.
"Well. Technically, if we went back, we wouldn't be going home alone. Nor should we have trouble finding beds in the house."
He knew she meant that last bit literally—that they each knew where their beds were, and it should be simple to find their way back to their respective ones. But for fuck's sake, that just wasn't fair. The image of Talia following him into his room and closing the door behind her, dress falling to the floor as the latch clicked. . .
"Probably wouldn't be the worst thing in the world," Talia's musings cut through his wonderings, "We have to meet the client again tomorrow, anyway. And a hangover doesn't really give the best last-impression."
"Why the fuck are you talking about work right now?" Laxus's chuckle rolled through her. Some part of the sound caught her—each note its own shot of bourbon: sharp point of heat and a lingering warmth that spread through her veins. She settled even deeper into his embrace and felt her eyes roll back as her eyelids closed.
"Mmmm, do that again."
He had no idea what she meant. But for some reason she looked far more properly drunk than she had a moment ago. It made his smirk widen into a grin. "Damn, Tal, your tolerance tanked this past year. You used to almost keep up with me; and here I am, drinking you under the table without even trying."
Talia's eyes didn't open, but she pointed her finger at him. Her voice dragged through the tug of a drawl: "Thas not it an' you know it." His eyes softened and he tightened his embrace for a moment.
"One more song, then let's get you to bed." She hummed in response. Her head turned in, and she nuzzled the bridge of her nose into the crook of his neck. Laxus laid his cheek against the top of her head and sighed. One more song. Why did I have to make it only one?
The first to come off were her shoes. Before Laxus had even closed the front door, one nude heel was off and the other promptly followed. They swung lazily from her hand as she walked toward the stairs, hips swaying in her tipsy daze. She bounced up the first few steps, but hesitated and wobbled a bit before reaching out to the railing and slowing to a walk. Laxus smirked as he watched her. She was a happy, flirty drunk—the way home was dotted with half-snippets of songs, a step or two of one dance and then a quick skip into another.
He followed her upstairs, but turned into his own room, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it onto the chair in the corner. He undid the buttons at his wrists, rolling the sleeves up onto his forearms, and then followed suit with undoing his tie and the buttons at his throat. He took off his socks and chestnut leather shoes and placed them beneath the chair. He heard a shuffle of fabric behind him, at the door.
"Hey, Laxus. . ." Talia said quietly, "Would you, um, help me with the clasps on this?"
She had taken her hair down; the waves and curls bounced haphazardly; the remnants of a calculated structure reverted to its natural, wild beginning. She felt his eyes on her, but she didn't meet them. Her fingers worried together above her waist. She turned around and drew her hair over her right shoulder. Her black Fairy Tail emblem peeked out from behind the curls.
Laxus closed the distance between them quietly, barely breathing. This can't actually be happening. His fingers lightly pushed aside a stray stand of hair that she had missed, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the ridge of her shoulders. She shivered. He tried to focus on the fabric, and he found the clasps at the top swath. He pulled the pieces apart gently, looking for the next set or zipper, his fingers tracing the widening plane of her back.
Talia felt the second set of clasps unhook at the back of her right ribcage. She placed a hand against her chest to keep the fabric from falling off completely. There was just the zipper at her hip left. She wasn't actually intending to have him undo everything. . . just the one she couldn't reach. But now that she was here, she couldn't seem to leave. He kept tracing languid lines along her back and shoulders, and she was lost in the twists and turns his light touch left on her skin. She felt his wide palm flatten against her ribcage, warmth radiating from his hand. She unknowingly leaned into his touch. His other hand slowly un-slid the zipper on her left hip. Her grasp was the only thing keeping the fabric up. She inadvertently held her breath and heard him exhale quietly.
"You can let it go, Tal," he said softly. Her eyes closed as his fingers drew up her spine and around her shoulder blades. They found their way to the base of her neck and traced the emblem there. She tilted her head forward slightly to give him more room and a low hum made its way out of her throat.
Her whole world was his touch. Wherever he wandered, she followed. It had been so long since she had felt someone else's warmth, not just a haphazard hug or friendly high-five. She didn't realize just how starved she was for the feeling. His hand was on her shoulder, now, and he turned her gently back to him.
Her green eyes shone deep and hazy, half-lidded as they were. The light from the hallway cast a warm glow over her. She didn't meet his gaze, but instead fixated on the buttons directly in front of her. There were so many of them. . . and it was late. You're not supposed to have buttons fastened this late at night. She pursed her lips and furrowed her brows, focusing on the unnatural-ness of the buttons before her. Her right hand stayed at her chest, supporting the lifeless fabric around her, but her left reached toward the buttons of his vest, fingers haphazardly pushing the button through its keeper.
It was adorable to watch. She really was fumbling quite badly with the buttons. They're hard enough to un-do with one hand, doubly so when it was her left. But her eyes held such a childish determination, he didn't dare intervene. Yet. She gave a proud hum when the last of the three buttons of his vest came loose, but faltered slightly at the delayed realization that there were many more, smaller, buttons waiting for her underneath. She seemed resigned to her task, though, and reached out toward the top button of his shirt. Laxus gave a small smile and took her hand in his. The change in movement startled her a bit, and she met his eyes with confusion.
His blue eyes held hers as he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. Her fingers were long and delicate in his large hand. He let them go slowly and set to unbuttoning his shirt himself. Inch by inch the shirt opened, revealing more of his taught skin underneath. By the time he got to the last button, her hand had quietly found its way to his chest. Her fingers were cool on his skin, and they ghosted over the ridges of his muscles. The paths they made meandered across the broad plane, until finding his tattoo and organizing into its shape. She pushed gently at the fabric that remained, and he dutifully shrugged off the layers.
The fabric hit the floor softly. She hadn't moved, and Laxus wondered if her shyness had kicked back in. Despite her teasing and flirtations, she had never been very comfortable talking about romantic situations—preferring to hide behind metaphors and obfuscations. He raised his hand to her cheek and laid his palm against the flushed skin. Her eyes closed and she leaned into the caress. She turned her head and kissed the inside of his palm before nuzzling her cheek back into his touch. Those green eyes opened again and, though they were hazy, they were sure. And that was all he needed. No more waiting, no more second-guessing or doubt. He kissed her.
His lips on hers was everything she never knew she wanted. Warm and strong and soft, she melted into the feeling. His other palm pressed into her bare back, holding her close. Her arms came up to wrap around the back of his neck, disregarding entirely the fabric that fell from her form and pooled by her feet. Her bare chest pressed into his, the warmth radiating from him quickly becoming an addiction. One of her hands found its way into his hair, while the other lingered over his collarbone and shoulder. His skin was startlingly soft, and she wanted to feel all of it. She deepened the kiss—all she could think of was wanting more, wanting to be closer.
Her left hand slid down his chest, wandering as it went. Laxus felt each line burn his skin as his mind's eye followed her down. She traced his ribs and obliques, following the ridges and paths of his body. He felt his side shiver as she traced his hip with a nail. And then her hand disappeared from his skin. . . but a telltale pull at his belt buckle answered the question he had yet to voice. He pulled back from the kiss slightly, breathing deeply in the cool air between them. She let out a disappointed note of a whine at the sudden loss of contact, and her eyes opened slowly.
He took half a step back and finished loosening his pants. They added to the pile of fabric at their feet. He took the moment and the slight distance to look at her. The light from the hallway gave her pale skin a warm glow, and emphasized the flush in her cheeks and chest. He reached out with one hand and traced the dip from her ribs into her waist and back out onto her hips. He felt her shiver and take in a shallow breath. White lace rode high on her hips, and his fingers explored the difference in texture, the intricate threads against her soft skin.
"So this is how you managed around that slit," his voice rumbled low, his smile cheeky.
"Were you trying to figure that out all evening?" she quipped back.
"No," he responded, his smile never waning, "Not all evening." He closed the distance between them again, but kept pushing forward, forcing her to take a few steps back. The back of her knees reached the edge of the bed. She sat down and scooted backwards to the center, the cold sheets a shock to her flushed skin. He immediately followed, his knees between her spreading legs and muscled torso looming over her. The bed was soft as she settled her back down, and her hands came up to wander along his abs. She didn't know why, but she just had to touch him when at all possible. That warmth, that contact, the soft planes of his skin—they drew her in at the same frequency as the music that still hummed along her veins.
He lowered one elbow to the bed, and his free hand traced her cheek with a delicacy he didn't know he was capable of. There was an unusual jittering under his skin—not bad, just different—as if her magic had somehow leeched into him and refused to sit still. And that was fine on his end. Her exploring hands warmed him in places beyond physical, and her desperation for his touch was palpable. Her hands on his back pulled him close against her, and he took the opportunity to return his lips to hers. His eyes closed as he fell into the feeling; the softness of her lips, the pull of her hands, the welcomeness of drowning within her warmth. His body pressed against hers in every way he could manage, and he dragged her thigh up over his hip with a strong hand. His fingers slid along the pale skin of her thigh, finally able to caress what he had been so tempted against all night. Callouses over smooth planes, his hand moved up the back of her thigh, and he felt her leg curl around him, pulling him closer even here.
She caught her lips on his once more, needing that breathlessness again. Her hands explored his rounded edges—the shoulders so much wider, so many ridges to anchor her fingertips. There were just so many ways to hold him, and she wanted to explore them all. The pricked edges of his smile were sweet, and she vaguely felt his fingers hook under her underwear, slowly drawing down the white lace. He pulled away from her then; she tried to follow his warmth, but fell back into the mattress as she felt his lips trail across her collarbone and down her body. The hand not pulling at lace dragged down her side with a possessive pressure that made her shiver and back arch. She lost herself entirely into his ministrations, eyes closed and overwhelmed by feeling.
Her moans were quiet, but greedy; everything he offered, she wanted more. But he was greedy too. Her sweat was sharp on his tongue as he explored her body—the raised edges of old scars, the ridges and valleys of her ribs. His hand fit her hip, thumb hooking over crest, locking her hip where he wanted it. Her nails dragged over the darkened skin of his tattoo, a distracted attempt at her own assertiveness. He didn't care if this was just carnal. He didn't care if he never had another chance. Tonight, she was his. And he would have her in every way that he could. His mouth trailed lower.
Slowly, with strong hands and delicate tongue, he coaxed her cries of ecstasy. Sounds he never knew he needed, and now couldn't imagine his life without. Her muscles tensed and flexed under his hands; her whole body clenched and released as waves rolled over her. Her hands clutched desperately in the pillows above her head, nails scraping against the fabric. She bit back and swallowed her moans, but he heard them anyway. Those sounds were his. Every involuntary and sensuous movement her body made in reaction to his touch—every jump, every buckle, every shiver—they were all his.
He nipped the inside of her thigh playfully as he felt her flexions still. A soft giggle came from her, followed by a hum of contentment. Her back arched, feeling out her body as the honeyed purr of afterglow set in. But he wasn't done yet. He kicked off his briefs and pulled himself on top of her, kissing and nipping his way up. She stretched and twisted on the bed beneath him, reveling in every iota of contact. Her head tipped back, neck arching, begging him to draw up higher. Her teeth flashed in a greedy smile as he pressed and slid his body against her, warmth and strength enveloping her. He dragged the point of his nose up the side of her neck, careful to avoid the delicate skin of her throat where those scars burned a warning. No, he'd not touch that. He wouldn't risk anything breaking whatever spell had been woven between them tonight. He nipped her earlobe lightly.
"Are you sure?" He could feel his own voice rumble and resonate in his chest and the air between them. He vaguely noted that her magic must still be leeching into him.
A hum came from low in her throat and she dragged her delicate hands up his sides. She could feel each little muscle tense and twitch underneath. She was mesmerized by them in her haze—the power they had, the fine movements each made. The promise that held for the rest of him.
"I want all of you."
He didn't voice the words that stuck in his throat. He just smiled and kissed the tender spot below her ear. He could hear her pulse racing, probably as fast as his own heart beat.
He brought his eyes back to hers, and for a moment she was startled by them—startled by how utterly lost she was in them. Those eyes as blue and vast as the open sky over the ocean, as deep as the water beneath. She brought her hand up and lightly traced the scar over his right eye. She had never known him without it. And as much as her own scars scared her, his had only ever meant home. Home and safety. Because it meant that he was there. And if he was there, everything would be all right. There was something else behind that blue that she couldn't place, some odd little trick of the light that she didn't recognize. But then his hands were on her again and her eyes closed, savoring the light pull and scrape of his callouses. She felt the warm pressure of his lips on her forehead, and it tingled and jumped as if he had put just a touch of lightning into the kiss. It made her smile.
The sex was beyond the norm for both of them—Laxus took his time, finding the angles and shifts that made her breath hitch and those little high squeaks escape. And Talia. . . she kept losing track. Of time, of movement, of self. Every time she thought she would need to give, to help him toward his end, something would drag her back past the point of functional thought.
He pulled her leg up over his shoulder, one hand firm on her hip as he moved against her, the other ghosting over the pale skin behind her knee and the back of her thigh. Another little high cry escaped her lips before she could swallow it, and Laxus grinned as he pulled her even closer. She was so quiet. He never liked the ones who were extraordinarily loud, but she was. . . all breath and those tiny little mews. Like she wouldn't bear to let any real sound out and only the highest pitches could escape.
"That's. . ." her breath caught with another thrust, and he swore what almost sounded like a growl came from low in her throat, "cheating." His grin turned wicked, watching her body squirm under him. Arching and twisting, her right hand pulled at the muscled arm that anchored him above her and her left grasped at the pillow above her head.
But they were both too tight, too close. Laxus groaned and dropped his elbow to the bed, tucking the bridge of his nose into the crook of her neck. Her hand came around his shoulder and gripped him tight—fingers finding those ridges in his muscled back. His thrusts were hard, but she met him for each. She shuddered around him, a moan breaking out from where she bit her lip in a vain attempt to keep it in.
"Fuck," the word tore out as he buried himself into her and her scent, the word low and possessive as he came.
Their breath mingled as the exertion and daze wore off slowly, their chests rising and falling at different rhythms. His fingers lightly traced down the side of her face, and she nuzzled into his hand. He just looked at her for a moment, savoring the way her cheeks flushed and her eyelashes settled against the delicate skin under her eyes. He wanted to say how beautiful she looked, how hard it was to keep his lips off the line of her jaw when she tilted her neck like that. How that little tipsy, sated smile gave him more pride and warmth than any success, any title he'd ever earned. But he swallowed the words. He was happy enough to have the night with her—they'd come to everything else eventually.
He kissed her forehead and slowly moved off of her, and then to the bathroom to wash up. She heard him go, but the hum in her body didn't want to move; not yet. A cocoon of happiness and contentment settled around her, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so warm and soft. She didn't want to move, she just wanted time to stop so she could stay here, in this bed, in this feeling. A contented sigh escaped her as she nuzzled her face into the sheets, and she curled onto her side. Her skin cooled as his warmth faded, and she heard the water from the bathroom turn off with a squeaky handle. She vaguely felt him watch her from the bathroom doorway, his massive body blocking the majority of the bright light from her eyes. Something in her chest reverberated with the low sound he made—somewhere between a chuckle and a hum. And for once, she didn't mind the eyes on her. She didn't shrink under the covers like she used to, so long ago.
"Admiring your work?" she murmured, her heavy eyelids opening just enough for a playful glance in his direction. His smile caught the light. He walked over to her and nudged her back, pushing her toward the bathroom door. She grumbled, but rose with a huff. She felt her hips sway as she walked into the light; the way they did after a good night—warm and loose and reveling in her own body.
The little iridescent white medical tattoo on her ankle glinted just before she closed the door—the same one that he had on his. It was a standard and suggested practice of the guild for each member to have a contraceptive spell inlaid on them somewhere. He knew for a fact that each member of the Thunder Legion had one. Made life just that much easier.
He closed the door to the hallway and slid under the covers, the smell of both of them lingering in the air. But no sign yet of the rest of the team—they must have really meant their late night out. He made a mental note that he owed them each a bottle of wine. He probably wouldn't have been able to have the house alone with her otherwise. He re-set the pillows that she had bunched and pushed haphazardly to the top of the bed. He pushed aside the question of whether or not she'd stay. He didn't want to think about it—just let her decide when she came back out. But he couldn't dampen the hope that clung to his chest. He tried to ignore it as he made himself comfortable, the water turning off in the bathroom.
Talia walked out of the bathroom after flicking off the light, face clean of makeup, hair braided long over her shoulder, and body exhausted from the day (and night so far). The room was dark, but the moonlight through the blinds and the light from underneath the hallway door leant the room a sleepy haze. She walked to the bed without really thinking, just looking to be buried under those blankets. She slid in and nuzzled into the warmth behind her—it was soft. His body, she realized, but the thought was fleeting as she felt a heavy, muscled arm wrap around her waist. She took his hand in hers and held it to her chest, placing a sleepy kiss on his knuckles. He was so broad against her back, and she tucked into him so easily. She fell asleep to the warmth of his embrace and the steady beating of his heart.
The grey, gold, and lavender light of early morning filtered through the soft curtains of Laxus's bedroom. He woke slowly, drifting through the hazy fog of a soft bed and warm blankets. Memories meandered lazily through his mind-the silver-blue shimmer of swaying hips, pale hands and arms and a long line of skin up a soft thigh; drowning in that skin when freed of silk and lace; high, sweet cries of pleasure, so much softer and more delicate than he had imagined.
There was so much light in his chest as his mind began to clear. Her felt her, at his back, the heat of her seeping through his skin. Back-to-back, as they had been so many times in the world, but now it held a different protection. He turned, shifting quietly under the blankets. He didn't realize how warm he was. No, not warm. Hot. She was a goddamn furnace under the covers. Go figure. He kicked one leg out from the tangle of fabric. His arm wound around her: the need for contact threatening to devour him, no matter the heat. And, as his mind still slithered out of sleep, to see if she was real. If this was real. He had never let his imaginings get this far before, had always shoved down those thoughts post-release because he couldn't bear to feel the loss and shock of reality.
But this was his reality. She was here, tucked against him. Her braid had loosened during the night and settled through the slight space between her neck and pillow. His hand found its way softly to her breast and settled there. But the rest of his body pressed against her, his forehead nuzzling into the back of her neck. He let himself be lost in that scent of hers—mint and rosemary and sweat and—
He smiled into the skin of her shoulder.
That was his scent mixed with hers.
The thought made him hold her even closer for a moment, a wave of possessiveness tightening his lungs. She stirred, and his embrace loosened. Some unintelligible mumble came out of her mouth, one that even he couldn't make sense of, no matter how close he was. The possessiveness eased and was replaced by an odd feeling—like cool satin over his chest, soft and smooth and delicate. Happiness or. . . something he wouldn't think about right now. Not with all the questions and worries it would lead him down. He placed a gentle kiss in the crux of her neck and shoulder, the little freckles coming out in the lengthening morning light.
It took Talia longer than usual to wander her way out of sleep—a blessed black sleep, tinted by a shimmering light and what almost felt like a purr. She was just too comfortable, the bed too deep, the blankets too weighty, her body too soft. Her body—how different it felt. She didn't recognize the deep breaths she took or the ease in her joints. Was her body always this light? Was she always this warm? That warmth under her skin, so alike the hope and excitement she felt as she set off on a new adventure. But Gods, she was warm. Practically sweating. She tried to wriggle out from under the blanket, but something heavy was holding her down. If she hadn't been burning up, she might've noticed how much she liked the feeling. How much that weight settled and grounded her and made her heart feel full. But holy Hades in a habit she was dying. She knew she would get warm under blankets but this was ridiculous. She hadn't been this warm since she'd slept next to—
The memories slammed into her like a meteor.
She went still in his arms. Her panic-straightened back and tense limbs dragged Laxus out of his drift back to oblivion. He wasn't quite aware yet, but he knew something wasn't right. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her chest—he wasn't awake enough to move his whole arm yet. And he was so comfortable. . . Maybe he was wrong, maybe it was nothing, just one of those muscle tenses on the precipice of sleep. He nuzzled into her neck again.
She leapt out of bed with limbs of frozen lead. Panic drove her back and into ceaseless movement, pacing along the front of the room. This couldn't—no no. They didn't. . .
Laxus woke with a start—her body pulled away from him with such force that he almost fell out of the bed himself. He bolted upright in bed, the blankets pulling against his waist. "Tal—"
She didn't acknowledge him. She didn't even seem to hear him.
"Talia—" his voice was pleading, desperate. But her constant movement never ceased. Her eyes never rested on one place. Long fingers danced lightly in the air, a malleable conversation in a language he didn't know. He could hear her heart pounding in her chest. The mumbling under her breath continued, but he could barely catch snippets.
"Talia!" He was forceful now. He needed to get through this—whatever this was.
She jolted out of her fidgeting, but her rigid, frozen body was worse. Because when she finally met his eyes. . . they were horrified. At him. At what had transpired between them? At something he said? At waking up in his arms? What have I done?
Nothing felt real. It couldn't be. Gods, please don't let it be. . . When she looked at him, it was as though he drew all the light in the room. She could feel the warmth of his skin, of his embrace, of his lo-. A shaky breath rattled through her lungs as the sob tried to wrench through. He was still in the bed, blankets strewn about his waist, that addicting skin calling to her every moment he stayed in her sight. She could feel her body itching to be back in his arms, that warmth drawing her in. And the longer her eyes stayed on him, the more the horror solidified in her stomach and the ice grew in her—reaching out and prickling into every smallest vein.
The scream in her mind only grew looked around and quickly grabbed his dress shirt from the floor, the massive garment dusting the tops of her thighs as she pulled it onto her arms and buttoned just enough to cover her chest. She threw the wooden door open and practically sprinted out the room.
Laxus hadn't moved. Time could have stopped for all he knew, and half of him wished it had. Anything to explain this away. The world felt so distant, while he was trapped in the inch of air apart from his skin. Every ounce of that vast happiness shattered before him, the shards slicing deep as they fell.
The door to her room slammed closed, and it broke his haze. He pulled out from the blankets and grabbed his briefs from the floor, pulling them on quickly as he opened his own door and stalked to her room. He didn't bother to knock, just turned the knob and pushed his way through. He abruptly shut it back behind him. But this was. . . worse. She was packing. Folding and rolling her clothes quickly and shoving them into that ratty old backpack.
"Talia!" he snapped, but she just kept packing. She strode from one side of the room to the other, grabbing small items as she went. She shoved those in the pack as well.
"Talia, look at me!"
She stopped and turned her eyes to him. But when she did, he realized it was one of the worst demands he could've possibly made. Tears streaked her cheeks and her chin trembled. Her green eyes were a forest watching fire rip through its most precious groves and thickets, ever encroaching and unavoidable. As if waking up next to him was tearing her to pieces. He felt those shards again, pricking, slicing, shredding at his heart.
"Tal, what's wrong?" his voice was soft and thick, his throat padded with the dense, soaked cotton of dread.
"I. . ." a shredded breath, "I just. . ." sobs wracked her chest, but somehow she suffered them there, biting her lip to try to keep from devolving completely. "I—I can't, Laxus."
"What do you mean you can't?" his own pain manifested as a harsh edge in his voice. "You don't need to—" He closed the distance between them and reached for her arm, but she flinched away and tore it back. He couldn't finish his question. She flinched from me. He staggered back a step, dread solidifying in his bones.
"I can't—" the words could barely make it out her mouth. "I can't let him be right." A sob cracked through, and she jolted back into packing. But after another set of items pushed into the pack, her hands stilled. She gripped the fabric of the straps—something, anything, for grounding.
Laxus could smell the salt from her tears.
"Almost all the fights we ever had were somehow about you. His paranoia grew every day. Because he was convinced," she turned to him, her eyes shining, "that you were in love with me. That I would love you. That those long missions were a means to find my way into your bed." She took a breath. "It was the one thing he could never get out of his mind. It's the reason that. . ."
"He hurt you."
"he's dead."
"I can't let him be right, Laxus," she said softly.
The air between them hung heavy.
"Fuck him," Laxus bit out, his fear slowly calcifying into anger. Not toward her, never toward her. But toward this specter that still bound her. "Fuck what he did. Fuck what he stood for. And, especially, fuck what he did to you."
Her eyes pinched shut, but a tear still fell from each. His voice softened, and she could hear the pain in it.
"If you tell me to, I'll leave."
Her eyes snapped open and met his. A breath of ice jolted through her lungs. No, that's not. . . I don't. . .
"I can walk out of this room and we can pretend nothing happened. I'll do it. But for fuck's sake I don't want to." His blue eyes were hard, stubbornness fighting through the shine. "I don't want to pretend that I don't care about you the way that I don't care about everything else. Because for one stupid, tipsy, sound-drunk moment, I had everything I ever wanted."
Her mouth opened, but she couldn't get a sound out. Everything was stuck in her throat—her thoughts, feelings, fears, impulsions—all wedged into a little wet ball that wouldn't budge.
His heart pounded in his chest. "I can't watch you leave again, Tal. I barely weathered it then, and I can't even imagine it now." He had never been this desperate in his life. The air scratched his throat raw. "At least let me try."
She looked down at her hands on the sun-bleached pack.
"I don't want to need you," her voice shook.
It was fear, he realized. It seemed like it took so much effort to heave her eyes back to his. Gods, she was so vulnerable. If she kept shaking like that, it might rattle her apart.
"Because. . . if-if I start. . . I don't know if I'd be able to stop."
He gave her an odd little smile. It wasn't pity, wasn't sadness, wasn't patronizing. It was the look of a person showing another way. That if you always turned right at the corner, you never saw the garden behind the wall on the left. Never knew it existed. Never knew the colors and twisting paths of possibility.
"You never needed anything, Talia." His voice was gentle, "But you're allowed to want. And if you don't want me—" he shuddered a steadying breath—"that's fine. But you should let yourself want again." He took a step toward her and extended his hand slowly, the memory of her flinch still seared into his skin. "You don't have to hold yourself aside from the rest of life."
His fingers found hers and he held them with penitence.
"You're allowed to be happy, Tal. Even if it doesn't feel like you should be. You are."
"I don't. . . I. . ." Words failed her. There was still that part of her that was screaming.
"I. . ." she took a shaky breath, "I need time." She looked at him, his face caught between hope and desperation. "I know what it's like to love unequally," her eyes were soft, "and I don't want to be a part of a binding like it again. So . . . give me a little time." She watched his face shift back to a forced neutrality as she spoke. She looked down at her worrying hands. "If I'm able to try something at all, I want to be able to meet you halfway."
Walking out of the that room was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. But he did it. He would give her that time, that space. She was still healing and there was nothing that was allowed to get in the way of that—not even him.
Maybe whatever bug had crawled up Tryst's ass last night was right—maybe hope was a chasm and he had just slipped and shattered to pieces at the bottom. But falling feels like flying until you make impact.
He gave her as much space as he could for the rest of the morning. Even shooting down the giddy looks of his teammates as they each ventured into the morning light. At his glower, none of them asked.
But he was the one to knock on her door when they needed to leave for the client meeting. And he had something he needed to say.
"I'm sorry," the door closed behind him. She hadn't unpacked, but she hadn't put anything more in that bag either. She had showered and dressed since he'd last seen her. And by the map she studied on the wall, she was estimating their time to Crocus—the capital and their next stop to meet for the Grand Magic Games. The room smelled of salt. "We'd both been drinking. I shouldn't have let it get that far. It wasn't fair to you—"
Talia held her hand up to silence him and shook her head.
"Please don't." Her voice raw and quiet, "You asked every step of the way, and I answered. There's no fault here. I'm sorry I reacted the way I did this morning. I just didn't—" she gave a shaky sigh and steadied herself with a hand on the desk below the map—"It's been a long time. For everything. And I'm still unravelling just how wrong things had gotten with Dimitri."
He noticed that her voice didn't shake when she said his name. He wondered if that was a good thing.
"You don't have to come to the client meeting, you know. The Thunder Legion can handle it if you need some time," he offered. She shook her head.
"No, I'll come along. It shouldn't take long, anyway. And it's easier to keep moving rather than get sucked down some twisting trail in my head," she tapped the top of her skull lightly. "It'll be a year and a half soon, but I've got some things to still work through up here." She took a deep breath. "Part of me knew how bad it had gotten, but I still didn't. . . I was so enamored that I just sunk into denial."
Her fingers dusted over the scars at her throat.
"Did you mean what you said earlier?" Her voice held an odd wistfulness, as if she wasn't sure which answer she'd prefer.
"Which part?" he replied, willing that insufferable swagger he'd created to come to the surface.
"That you couldn't watch me leave again? That you wanted a chance to try?"
Her face was open, eyes lost. As if she couldn't comprehend the idea of it—of not just wanting someone, but being wanted by someone as well. He huffed a dark laugh and stepped closer to her—his hand came to her cheek. He pressed his lips to her forehead.
"All of it."
And it was an odd feeling—believing him.