A/N This is the longest chapter I've ever written. It's three times longer than the OG Chapter 5. Buckle in, readers, because I'm putting Van through a wringer. Comment and let me know what you think.

xo- CE

Chapter 5: Thunder and Dining

Van sat pondering on the bench in the washroom, listening with a little apprehension as the rain pattered against the frosted glass of the window. He was procrastinating returning to his wife. As aroused as he'd been by her barely hidden figure, he needed a rinse and more than a few minutes to cool down. He hoped that she cooled off in the meantime, too. She'd been visibly bothered by him, and that was the last thing he wanted.

Well, that, and a loud thunderstorm.

At least his stealthy entry into his room hadn't bothered her. It was past dark by the time he returned, and he had expected her to be dozing in bed. Rather than disturbing her by knocking, he opted to just step in.

Finding her laying in a bed on the floor stung him, though, he had to admit that. It's not that he had expected her to be lounging around naked, but he had hoped to at least edge closer to that line and share a bed with her tonight. Luckily, he had kept his frustration in check just long enough to be jolted out of his self-pity by her startled reaction to his voice. Her squeal and subsequent laughter had amused him more than he expected, and he tried not to think about how that was the first time he had made her laugh.

He liked having that effect on her, though.

Then she'd smiled up at him and teased him. It was encouraging. So by the time she'd stood and hastily admitted she was glad not to share a dinner with anyone else, he had forgiven the unintentional and innocent jab at his ego that had been her makeshift bed on the floor.

He had been caught off guard by how very different she looked all cleaned up. Accustomed to seeing people at their worst during war, she hadn't appeared or smelled all that bad earlier. Worn and dirty, sure, but not off-putting to him. Her altered appearance after a thorough bath had really caught him off guard.

It started when she stood up, and the rush of air carried her scent and alerted his own senses. Between that, her appealing nervousness, and the way her face and hair gleamed in the firelight, she already had his full attention. Her hasty jest about her clothes merely added fuel to the fire. He couldn't help that his attention went where she indicated.

Like the lightning outside now, the sight had electrified his whole body in a burst he felt from his core to his fingertips. Even now, he could recall the ache in his hands that he suspected could only be relieved by touching her.

There she was, glowing golden in those thin night clothes, and she'd been all he could see. As he had stood drinking her in for what was really the first time, her eyes had met his with the same determined poise he'd seen from her at other times. Almost, she seemed to challenge him.

But then her poise faded. Her eyebrows drew together, and her lips pressed tightly closed.

She'd turned away from him.

Van had felt her defensiveness like a cool breeze, and awareness of his own slip of dignity left him unable to form a coherent sentence. Like a coward, he could only think to find refuge here in the washroom.

He rolled his eyes at himself and forced his mind back to the issue at hand, hoping that with a little forethought, he might be able to prevent something similar from happening again.

Didn't she want to be attractive to him? Or did she not want his attention in that way?

Van thought back to those first five months of their marriage. She'd always taken care of herself, dressing nicely, sometimes even wearing something that showed off her figure when the occasion called for it. Absolutely he'd taken notice those times, but because they hadn't crossed—or even approached— the line of demonstrating physical attraction, and because they were not alone, and because he was adept at disciplining his mind otherwise, he had been able to distract himself before his loins could carry away his brains.

Besides, he was a king, and he wasn't about to expose such emotions as desire in the presence of others. Had she come to him privately, dressed as she was tonight, things might have been different between them sooner. But that she hadn't wasn't her fault. He hadn't approached her privately in her chambers either, instead using a servant as a go-between. Van couldn't even remember knocking on her door.

No, this was his fault.

His original sin had been the deliberate message he sent on their wedding night. By dictating that his room was not to be tidied, he made it clear that he neither wanted her to get comfortable in it nor with him. It had been callous, calculated to keep her at a distance, and she'd taken it with that same grace he'd glimpsed tonight.

And apparently, she'd taken it to heart, too.

But he was fed up with it all. He was fed up with regretting what he'd done. He was fed up with this distance he'd created between them. This was a chance for a do-over, and he was determined to change how things were between them.

She was his wife, the Queen of Fanelia. After spending two months wondering if he'd lost everyone and everything closest to him, believing himself destined to be the lone King of Fanelia, he couldn't help but feel relief and even joy at the prospect of not being alone.

Tonight, she was here, with him, and he felt all the more poignantly how very isolated he'd made himself, and how very much he had to make up for with her. He had no idea what he was doing, but he instinctively knew it had been a good start to have this room cleaned.

Truly, it was a bitter thought that he hadn't treated her better when his home had been his own. Now—pathetically—his hospitality to her was only possible because of Millerna and Dryden's generosity. Without any real authority to command the household staff here, he'd had to summon all his humility to approach Millerna. She, of course, had been more than happy to put a maid and her resources at his disposal.

And of course, he had her to thank for that delicate nightgown his wife presently wore.

Van fisted his hands through his damp hair, conversely blessing and cursing Millerna. That woman had to have known what she was doing. Now he had to figure out how to eat dinner across from Hitomi when she was dressed like that, especially since she seemed to be bothered by his attraction to her.

Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad if he left the lamp in the washroom. The less light he had, the less of her he could see. The table was already set away from the fire.

Blowing out a puff of air, he gripped his knees and pushed himself to stand. There really wasn't much use pining around in here any longer. He'd already cleaned himself up and had nothing else to do but recycle all these thoughts. Besides, dinner should have been delivered by now and would be getting cold.

He focused his breath, reminding himself he was a king who had faced more terrifying situations than this, and opened the door to step back into his shadowy bedroom.

Hitomi was on the floor again, this time facing the storm-beaten windows. He pressed his lips together, thinking that he'd move the couch closer for her when he got a chance. Aside from the fire, she was the brightest spot in the room, and her hair shone in a golden cascade down her back.

She turned to watch him approach. His heart skipped.

With his robe billowing out behind him, Van stepped towards her. In a flash of lightning, he noticed that Hitomi's expression had returned to being calm and open, and he relaxed a smidgeon. His time cooling off had served her then, too.

Then, as he stepped out of the darkness and into the firelight, Hitomi's lips parted and her eyes widened, freezing on his bare chest. Van felt his core heat up. At that moment, he was grateful both that he'd left off the top to his pajamas and that swordsmanship was good for something other than self-defense.

Being ogled was something he'd been victim to hundreds of times, and he knew it was not just for his rank of king. His skin usually crawled with the attention, and normally he would roll his eyes and deploy his practiced stoniness until whoever it was realized the futility of her flirtations.

But if anyone should stare at him with interest, it ought to be his queen. The reality of it now was gratifying. He stopped a few steps back from her to allow her to scan him and so he wouldn't have to look down on her so steeply. Up and down, down and up her gaze traveled.

It had to be this newly awakened hypersensitivity to her. When she wet her lips and her hand lifted unthinkingly to the collar of her robe, he had a really, really hard time distracting his mind—he was King of the Land of Dragons, dammit—to keep the rush of excitement in check. Out of habit, and in spite of the fact that he didn't have boots to hide the action, he began wiggling his toes.

She noticed the movement. He knew because her eyes darted down to watch for a moment. But she didn't say anything. Instead, she slowly raised her chin to peer up at him and ask, "We have matching nightclothes?"

Van had to clear his throat to gain control of his voice. "Yes," he said, tearing his eyes from her to finger the edge of his blue robe. "They were a gift from Millerna."

"Oh. How very thoughtful of her," she said, her voice tight.

Van couldn't look at her and pressed his lips together so as to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself.

Lightning lit up the black sky outside, followed by a roll of thunder that echoed off the stone walls of the palace and city and vibrated the windows. They turned in unison to watch the display.

Something—other than the storm—didn't settle right. His eyes searched the room, and his stomach clenched when he spotted the table, which he'd been expecting to remain in darkness on the other side of the couch, had been moved closer to the fire.

Van rubbed his face in exasperation.

Hitomi had evidently followed his gaze. "Are you upset I had the table moved?" she asked.

He let out a long breath and looked down at her. Her eyebrows were pinched in concern, and the very idea that she cared relieved him of some of his distress. "No," he said, mostly to reassure her. There was nothing for it but to change tactics. Maybe she just needed to get used to him.

He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck before holding his hand out for her. "Are you hungry?"

"Incredibly." Her eyes focused on his hand before returning to his face.

Swallowing, he said, "I apologize for the wait."

Her now neutral expression twitched, and he wondered if she guessed why he'd taken so long. "It's fine. My hair is dry now," she said, lifting her hand to his. Her fingers were cool and smooth and feminine. Gripping them gently, he helped her up. He admitted a little disappointment when her robe stayed securely closed.

Now she stood next to him, her hand in his, Van's mind raced. What next? She hadn't pulled her hand away immediately, so that was promising. Should he be the one to let go? He quickly settled on a rather formal habit and tucked her hand into his elbow. It was too much like he was escorting her to a formal dinner, except this was only a handful of steps to the other side of the fireplace, but she went along with it graciously enough. "Would you like to sit closest to the fire?" he asked her.

"Didn't you bathe?"

He blinked at her forthright question. "More or less," he said vaguely.

Her eyes bounced up to his damp hair and back before she smiled coyly at him. "Then it's your turn to dry your hair," she said, giving his arm a squeeze. Unconsciously, he reacted with a quick flex of muscle.

"I guess you're right," he said, returning her smile. Her face brightened and her smile grew wider, and maybe she'd increased the pressure of her hand on his arm, too. He found himself relieved that he would have the advantage of firelight on her for their dinner after all.

Van helped Hitomi to her seat. She sat tall and waited for him before she uncovered her plate. He followed her lead, revealing a relatively nice war-time meal of hen with garden vegetables. Due to the emotionally charged events at midday, he'd neglected to eat lunch, only just catching an afternoon tea while he read over the papers Hitomi had brought him. He'd since napped and cleaned up, so he was starving and began to dig into his food.

He and Hitomi hadn't dined together often before the war—usually he ate alone in his room or his study—but they had appeared together at formal dinners once a week, and he had escorted her to a few festival dinners. This wasn't their first time sharing a meal together, it was just the first time they shared a meal alone.

Still, he couldn't decide whether the lack of spectators and servants made this landmark dinner easier or more nerve-racking.

Hitomi stood, and he looked up as she uncovered the third platter. It held bread and butter, two small plates of cake, and a ramekin of after-dinner spices.

"Would you like some bread?" she asked softly.

"Yes, please." Van let his eyes skim down along her backside as she bent over the table.

"Water?"

"Hmm? Yes," he said, just catching her question. This time he made himself focus on her graceful hands as she poured their drinks. It was just water, but he could tell by the way she held the pitcher that she'd been educated on how to expertly serve a formal tea. Sometimes he forgot that she was the daughter of a count; undoubtedly, her upbringing had prepared her well to be his queen.

His Queen?

Van stared dumbly ahead, wondering when that phrasing had entered his vocabulary, and it wasn't until Hitomi placed his bread and water before him that he blinked and his vision came back into focus.

"Thank you," he managed to say by the time she sat again.

"You're welcome, Van," she said.

The sound of his name on her lips made the hair on his neck stand on end. His eyes travelled to her mouth as she began to eat.

She must have noticed. She put down her utensils and lifted her glass to her lips. "Your room here is very nice," she said after a sip.

Van's attention returned to his plate, and he disciplined himself to cut through the meat. "Yes, the Astons have been generous." He took a bite.

"Are you here often?" she asked.

"No. You caught us during a strategy meeting," he said after swallowing.

"Yes, I knew I would," she said without any inflection, as if she were commenting on how wet the rain was.

Van looked up quickly, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead. "How?" he asked. War time strategy meetings weren't public knowledge.

Before she answered, she locked eyes with him, and he sensed by their glint in the firelight that her answer was going to be meaningful. A blush colored her cheeks, but it was another beat before she spoke. "Intuition," she said simply. Then she dropped her gaze and speared a green vegetable off her plate.

As he watched the movement of her lips again, he flinched when lightning cracked behind her, turning her into a silhouette of darkness. Momentarily blinded, the king returned his attention to his dinner.

For some time they ate with ravenous restraint. The sound of the storm had one benefit of covering what might have been the awkward sounds of eating. Van could tell Hitomi had been hungrier than he had been, and it gave him satisfaction to watch her enjoy her food across from him.

Eventually, Van recalled something from earlier in the day. "What route did you take here?"

"Over the Adom Pass," she answered, as if that weren't one of the more treacherous roads here.

Van pressed his lips together. "How long did it take?"

"The trip or the pass?"

"Either. Both."

"Four days over the pass. Eleven days total."

"On foot?" He wanted to ask how she managed it.

"Mostly. I had a horse in the beginning."

"Had?"

When she hesitated to answer, he knew what was coming. Her eyes flicked up to his, and she paused her eating as she answered cautiously, "A dragon got it three nights in."

He did his best to swallow as his throat tightened and his stomach churned. It was as he feared. She had cut through dragon country. Putting down his fork, he asked, "You cut through the glades? Aren't you afraid of dragons?"

Her teasing retort was immediate. "No, I married you didn't I?"

He was aware of both her attempt at a joke as well as her meaning; his people called him Dragon, both for his temperament and because of the ritual he had to go through to become king. While the baser part of himself stirred at the idea of his wife calling him by that nickname, more immediately, his mind was too wrapped up in the idea that Hitomi had encountered a dragon alone. A dragon that had been so close to her that it ate her horse.

He remembered all too well what it was like to be hunted by a dragon, and his body threatened to react accordingly. Even now, he felt the pulling sensation of blood draining from his hands and head.

Locked away in his mind was the vivid memory that was the visceral, all-consuming experience of killing a dragon alone. Every sense had engaged: the taste of its putrid breath in the air; the cracking of branches as it slithered and scratched along the floor; glimpses of its eyes glowing through the trees; his skin pricking with fear as the ground rumbled in a scant warning that preceded a blast of fire.

Sometimes, that dragon, green and twisted and rancid, liked to slither through the back of his mind. He felt it now, licking his thoughts with its tongue, as if testing for weakness before attacking.

Sometimes, if just the right door opened, it would slip out.

Darkness began to edge around his vision and his heart began to pound. "How many dragons did you encounter?"

"I didn't actually see any up close, Van," she said, but her placating tone did nothing to soothe him. "I learned in my youth how to avoid dragons."

His fisted hands threatened to shake, so he tucked them under the table. In an attempt to stay grounded, he tried to continue the conversation. "Then how did your horse get killed?"

He didn't hear her answer. A consecutive sequence of sounds filled his head. First, a low, shuddering breath vibrated the windows, growling in the darkness, followed by the sound of claws clicking on the rocky forest floor behind him. Van twisted towards one sound, then the other.

"Van? Van I'm going to touch you," he heard, just before two hands covered his fists.

Reflexively, he jerked back, pulling his hands away.

"Van, it's just me," Hitomi said, swiftly moving to grip his forearms. Lightning illuminated his room, and he saw wife crouched before him, her hair spilling over her shoulders. The answering thunder rolled outside, still sounding all too much like a growl, but he saw her steady and warm eyes, her eyebrows knit in concern, and his ears caught her words.

"It's just the storm. You're here. With me. We're safe." she was saying, her voice calm and firm and level as she began rubbing up his arms. The clicking sound behind him became again the crackling of the logs in the fire. He took a deep breath.

Mortification began to heat his neck and face. "Yeah, I know where I am," Van said defensively, but he surprised himself by not pulling away from her touch.

Her lips curved into an understanding smile, as if she'd expected his reaction, before she straightened and moved behind him, keeping one hand on his shoulder as she went. Her hands began rubbing his neck with firm, warm motions. Chills ran across his skin and he stiffened at first, but the novel sensation did a lot to soothe his embarrassment.

"Are you okay?" she asked as she worked his neck.

Van grunted.

Luckily, she went on. "After the Freidian-Basramian war, my father could no longer tolerate loud sounds. He lost a lot of troops after his levi-ship exploded with him in it. He was lucky to survive, but thunder was something that bothered him for a long time."

She began to play her fingers through his hair, rubbing his scalp. His breaths deepened and his heart slowed its tempo.

Gods of the four winds, her touch felt really, really good.

Van was accustomed to hiding any show of weakness. The vulnerability he felt by having nearly slipped into a flashback of the dragon slaying made his muscles twitch with the desire to get away.

But he'd never had anyone do this before. He couldn't remember the last time he felt this way in anyone's presence.

Her hands ran soothingly through his hair and over his neck. His face and fists slackened and the desire for flight dissipated. As he thought over her words, he felt an unfamiliar reassurance knowing that someone else close to her experienced similar attacks.

After a moment, curiosity got the better of him. "Did you do this for your father?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She lifted her hands away and stepped around the table. Van cursed himself for asking a question that made her withdraw. He felt the vacancy of her touch as acutely as he might the absence of shelter in a storm.

But she was merely fetching the pitcher. She returned to refill his glass. "No, but my mother did," she said as she poured. "It happened quite often at first, but not so much these days. It's been eight years." Her movements were graceful, serene, as if she genuinely was not bothered by his uncharacteristic display. She handed him the glass. "I learned to spot the signs, though," she said, meeting his eyes with a small smile.

He didn't know what to say, so he opted instead to raise the glass in a subtle toast of gratitude before lifting it to his lips.

Van thought about telling her the source of his panic. It wasn't the war so much as having been a young man forced to slay a dragon in order to take his place in life. The dragon he ultimately slayed had come upon his camp just as a storm was setting in. Years had passed and his anxiety lessened significantly, but sometimes circumstances combined in the worst ways. This evening had almost been one of them. Rubbing his forehead, he felt gratitude rush through him that she'd stopped him before panic really set in.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clink of a little plate being set on the table. Hitomi had brought him cake and now stood before him. He looked up. "You need to eat something sweet," she said lightly, though her smile faltered nervously. She paused a moment, then leaned down to press a warm kiss onto his forehead.

Van was so surprised at the movement that he froze. The clean scent of her hair was the first thing he noticed as it fell forward and tickled his face and neck. The sensation rushed over him, electrifying his skin, alerting all his senses that she was very close. Then her sash slipped to the floor and her robe fell open. His eyes widened as he was presented with an unobstructed view of her breasts beyond her gaping nightgown. An involuntary sound caught in his throat as his body shuddered.

Hitomi jerked back with a gasp and crouched to snatch her sash up off the ground. Her face glowed a brilliant red as she slowly looked up at him through her hair, her eyes large and lips parted.

A flood of aching, throbbing heat spread from his core to his hands and toes, replacing all his former feelings with an exhilarating headiness. Van swallowed, hesitating even as his hands burned and trembled to reach out for her. Distantly, he recalled her reaction to his arousal earlier and just barely held himself back.

She stood and strode away to her place at the other side of the table. Automatically, he turned in his seat to follow her movements.

He sat back in his chair, legs spread, toes and fingers fidgeting compulsively, completely attuned to every move Hitomi made. He watched her squirm as she attempted to eat her cake, glancing up at him nervously between skimpy bites. She hadn't tied her sash, but her robe was regrettably folded over her chest, so he memorized the curve of her neck and the slopes of her face. Her lips twitched when she looked up at him, and her empty hand fluttered up to her neck or hair.

A smirk threatened at her nervous antics, and he schooled himself to remain serious.

When she'd eaten half her serving, she began to fill the silence between them. "Aren't you going to eat your cake, Van?" she asked without any attempt to veil her agitation.

Van, meanwhile, had to try very hard to subdue what was almost a rapacious grin. "I'm not hungry," he said.

"Why not? It's delicious. You should try it," she said, her voice growing higher as she rambled on. "I think the cream is maybe berry, and the frosting is so perfect. I wonder what it looked like uncut? I'm guessing it was beautiful. Just look at this," she said as her fork traced the path of the intricate design on what remained of her cake. "Honestly, this is the best and most beautiful thing I've eaten since our wedding…." Her voice died out at the mention of what he often considered the most awkward day of his life. She flicked her eyes to his and back before she pushed on. "Do you want yours? If you don't eat it, I might. I haven't had cake since—don't you want yours?"

During her rather giddy soliloquy, the heat and tension within him simmered to a sufferable hum. He sat forward— chin propped on his fist, elbow on the table, knees bouncing—and watched her with growing enjoyment. Now, at her question, which was doubtless rhetorical and mostly a means of filling the space between them, he couldn't help prodding her agitation just a little further. He gestured to his cake with his free hand and asked with an unfettered, suggestive grin, "Would you like me to feed it to you?"

His uncharacteristic remark hit exactly as he expected. She dropped her fork, her eyes and mouth opened wide in surprise, and her face and neck bloomed with a brilliant blush. Van sat soaking it in with no small degree of satisfaction, especially as she pressed her hands to her cheeks in a likely attempt to cool them.

She spluttered, glanced away, tossed her hair, squirmed, glanced back, and sat forward again before giving up all pretenses and standing to tie her sash. With jerky, nervous motions, she began cleaning up the table. Van knew that if he stood, the table being more compact than not, he'd be in her space and increase the potential for losing self-control, so he remained seated but tidied his platter himself.

"I'd like the bowl of spices," he said just as she was cleaning up the center platter.

She peered up uncertainly before handing him the little ramekin. "This?"

"Yes, they're after-dinner spices," he said, taking it from her with a brush of fingertips that he felt all up his arm. "An Asterian specialty. Have you ever had any?"

"No, I haven't," she said quietly. He held the bowl towards her and she hesitated before taking a pinch. She nodded her approval of them as she chewed, and for just a blink, he hoped perhaps she would relax towards him. She had rested against the table as she tested the spices, but soon a restlessness overtook her again. Turning back to the business of cleaning up dinner, she let her hair fall to cover her face and asked, "Van, why did you ask me to stay?"

Her question washed over him as effectively as a cold rain, and he felt his face slacken in surprise. She didn't give him time to form a response.

"I mean, for all I know, it was because you felt sorry for me, or responsible, or obligated. I don't know. Don't think I'm ungrateful," she glanced at him and tossed her hand to the window, where he turned to see the storm had abated. "If you hadn't asked me to stay, I would have been caught in the rain. So thank you. But really, for all I know, it could be because you haven't had a woman in a long time."

"What?" He jerked his attention back to her, but she ignored him and strode to the hall door. For a brief moment, when she flung it open, he feared she was leaving, but she merely set a domed platter on the floor in the hall before returning.

"I don't want to smell food anymore. It's already stuffy in here, right? I mean, I didn't dream it, did I? You did ask me to stay?" she questioned as she took his platter, her eyes bouncing everywhere except for him. He couldn't keep up with her questions. They seemed to be all over the place. "Can we open a window? Why are you treating me differently? You didn't care before. What's changed? Why have you asked me to stay? You just sit there and stare at me, and I have no idea what's going on in your head."

If he were honest, he also had no idea what was going on in his head as he gaped at his wife in an unhelpful and dumbfounded manner. A brief memory flitted to mind.

In his early adolescence, he had one unhappy tutor who had a most terrible temper if Van didn't cooperate as he expected. That man, Ferron, had regularly blamed his poor disposition on his unfortunate marriage and nagging wife. Such influence during Van's formative years, especially coming around the time when he lost his mother, had impressed upon his tender mind that women nag and make life harder. It had, for better or worse, been something that contributed to his own disposition towards women in general.

Now the king took a drink to wet his throat as he thought about how he should approach this woman, the wife he'd chosen. She had carried the last platter out and shut the door, returning—questions and agitation apparently exhausted—to collapse into her former seat at the table, where she drained her cup, refilled it, and then sat playing with her Fanelian signet ring—her wedding ring—as she waited for him to answer.

Luckily, that unfortunate tutor wasn't the only example of marriage he had. His first example had been his parents, before they died. They'd lived with so much passion that, after his father died in an accident, his mother's mysterious death a year later could only be explained as a consequence of heartbreak. The idea of such a deep-seated love had stuck with him, even as he compensated by pushing people away.

More recently, though, he had Dryden and Millerna. As king and queen, they were both a healthy example and a key factor in his recognizing what, exactly, he'd been missing out on by ignoring Hitomi as he had. In the time he'd spent with them immediately before the war and in the time since, he'd watched the monarchs look after each other with a tenderness that struck a chord in his heart. He'd found himself pining for the same thing and feeling that he'd lost his chance by losing his wife in the attack on Fanelia.

But he hadn't lost her. She was here. Van sighed and looked up at her. She was fingering her hair now and staring behind him into the fire.

He knew Hitomi wasn't a nagging wife. She'd lived down the hall from him for five months with nary a complaint or an angry word. Naturally, his body coiled up in defensiveness at her barrage of questions, but he knew deep down they were justified. He'd admitted to himself that he wanted things to be different between them, and this was his chance. He just had to tell Hitomi.

Van shifted to fidget with the spice bowl, spinning it with one finger as he took a pinch of the piquant spices. "Hitomi," he said after a minute.

She looked up with glazed eyes.

"I, uh…you asked me a lot of questions." He rubbed his neck and looked away, embarrassed by the stupidity of his statement.

"I did," he heard her say softly.

Sighing, he traced the wood grain along the tabletop. "I've—I've had time to think about things." He glanced up to see her keenly watching him. "I don't…I was…." He clenched his fist and tapped the table. Beneath his robe, his toes were flexing and relaxing in their jittery arrhythmia. Why was this so difficult? He took another breath. "Yes, I asked you to stay," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

Van pressed his lips together and sat forward again, running his hand through his almost-dry hair. This had been a very long day and he'd run the gamut of emotions. Perhaps, had he not, he would have more energy for defensiveness just now, but he was tired and couldn't remember all her questions and didn't know how to answer the one she clearly wanted most answered.

"Hitomi, perhaps I asked you to stay for the same reason you did a messenger's job and came all this way?"

Her eyes, dark in the dim light of the fire, grew narrow as she aimed a penetrating look at him. Shivers ran up his back, his breath caught, and he swallowed.

"So, Van, enlighten me. Tell me why I came," she said slowly, a challenge in her voice.

Now that he'd been asked to say his assumption aloud, he felt the reality that he had no place guessing her thoughts. The look on her face made him wonder if she was a little annoyed or bothered again, and now he second guessed himself. Overcome by a wave of nervous agitation, he stood, choosing instead to prop himself up on the table and gaze out over the room. After a moment's thought, he admitted defeat. "I guess I cannot presume to know your thoughts or motives," he said.

Her audible sigh surprised Van by sounding more contented than exasperated. His head shot around and he saw that her former expression had disappeared and she indeed appeared pleased with him. His face twisted in confusion.

She stood so they were at eye-level. "Correct, Van. It's dangerous to presume what or how I think."

He swallowed, feeling the hairs on his arms rise. "I didn't—I wasn't—."

She stepped towards him. "That being said, you're probably right."

"Huh?" He felt his eyes widen.

Another step, her arms folded. "So answer this question instead, Van: What do you want?"

The blood drained from his head as he scanned her face, somehow managing in his weakened state to keep himself from roving down her figure. She raised her eyebrows and motioned for him to speak.

His dry throat tightened and he couldn't get all the words out. "—I want?"

She sat back upon the table, moving just a hands-width farther away with the motion, giving him a little more space to breathe. "Yes, Van, we all want something." She wet her lips. "When you asked me to stay, what did you want from that?"

He swallowed convulsively and rubbed his forehead to soothe the dizziness he felt. When had she turned the tables? He was completely unaccustomed to feeling this off-balance. All he had to do to make this anxiety go away was say his thoughts aloud. Why was that so difficult? He knew the words. But she was so close, she had her hand on the table and was leaning towards him, her eyebrows raised expectantly, and her hair glinted golden in the light from the fire.

He couldn't stand this anymore.

With a determined breath, he aimed his own intense gaze at her and said, with all the steadiness he could muster, "I want things to be different between us, Hitomi."

The room filled with the gentle pattering of rain on the windows as the words he spoke settled around them. She matched his gaze as her eyebrows settled. That thrilling heat from before began to hum through his body, every hair stood on end, and his skin prickled with energy. He was close enough to touch her, his hands twitched on the table, but he held back, waiting.

She blinked and her shoulders relaxed. A smile both tremulous and warm spread onto her lips, and her eyes glinted tenderly. Van felt his insides stir. Distantly, he recognized a similar look from the night of his gala. It had put him at ease then, but tonight it did something different.

Finally, she nodded. "Then yes, Van," she said, "you were right about why I came."

Van nodded, too, and looked down at the space on the table separating their hands. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Scarcely had he decided to move his fingers closer to hers when the room lit up with the brightest lightning strike of the night, washing them both in white light. They turned in unison to watch it. Just before it finished, he felt her warm hand grip his.

When he looked back at her, he didn't even hear the thunder that certainly pounded the windows.