Keefe is squirming under Grady's assessing stare, sweat pearling the crown of his forehead.

He's no good with–

–for–

–his own father, so why should Sophie's be any different?

Silence encompasses them, heavy and itchy like a blanket, begging him to break it with some clever quip. Yet, despite the nerves, he doesn't joke, doesn't back down, set on proving that he's serious about this—serious about nothing if not this—whatever this is, whatever Sophie will allow it to be.

Grady seems to understand, eyes as unyielding as ever but with a glimmer of approval peaking through.

The door to Havenfield swings open wider.

"Come on in."

"Uh. Thank you."

Ro snickers as she follows.

"You will find Sophie in the kitchen," Grady supplies, moving past him to, much to Keefe's surprise, step outside. "She's been... stress-baking."

The Ruewens were probably ready to launch an elvin patisserie, then.

"Thank you."

Grady arches a thick brow, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. "You've already said that."

"Lord Funkyhair does have the tendency to lose all of his shine whenever The Adorable Queen of Obliviousness is involved."

Keefe flashes bright red, hot to the very tips of his ears. "Not. Helping!" he whisper-squeaks with a glare aimed in Ro's direction.

Mercifully, Verdi roaring loudly from her enclosure far into the pastures saves him from further embarrassment.

Grady cringes. "That's my cue, I believe. I will see you later."

A beat.

"That—"

"Yup. Sounded like a threat."

Keefe gulps, nods his head even if Ro's sentence was a statement, not a question.

"I guess you better make use of the time you have before he comes back, then, don't you? Chop-chop!"

"Don't—" —another glare, a sigh, he resumes through gritted teeth— "I'm already on edge."

"I'm well aware," Ro pulls a face, clearly not impressed, "I'm trying to take it off."

"How magnanimous."

"Keefe?"

The boy whips around in a graceless pirouette, feeling no queasiness whatsoever at the sudden movement–

–it's impossible, he has learned, to feel anything which is not connected—coming from, caused by—to the one girl standing in front of him, whenever she's near (whenever she isn't, too)–

–only anticipation.

The sight of her after days of avoidance is a punch in the gut, so her name is but a word carried out on a shaky exhale.

"Sophie."

"Ro."

Both elves turn to look at the ogre intent on observing their interaction from the sideline.

"What? I thought we were parroting our names to each other."

Keefe is about to retort when Sandor appears behind Sophie with signature stealth.

"I think the ogre princess should accompany me on this patrol."

"Is it a challenge I hear?"

"An offer," Sandor scowls.

"Well," Ro's answering smirk is a pointy thing, "how can I refuse, then? Let's see what I will detect that you couldn't."

Sophie keeps shuffling her feet on the spot long after their bodyguards' disappearance.

Seconds amount to minutes amount to hours amount to an infinity of doubts. He's an Empath and should know–

–feel–

–better–

–even if he has grown up believing to not be good enough–

–should never doubt an emotion when it is oh-so-effortlessly swirling through the air, but he can't help himself. She's Sophie and he's Keefe and this must be a dream, or it—or she—

"Hi."

He takes a step forward, patting his hands down the fabric of his cape as if reassuring himself. "Hey, Foster."

She smiles—and it's the sun.

Just like that, it's them again because he's Keefe and she's Sophie and no one knows him better.

He notices the alicorn-print apron covering her tunic and grins. "So... baking?" Sophie frowns quizzically, silently prompting him to explain. "Gradyio told me. I think I'm growing on him."

"Oh. Yes. Edaline and I were making mallowmelt, then we heard you," she fidgets, reaching up to tug at a few eyelashes, "so she, uhm, went outside."

Everyone seemed to be going outside.

"You shouldn't have stopped on my account," Keefe mumbles. He fights the impulse to look down at the pavement–

–to be a coward, to play right into his family's legacy–

–lets the need to drink her in, to fully experience every moment he has with her win, instead. "I'll be quick. I... I just wanted to say I'm sorry in person."

Her frown turns confused. "What for?"

"For the other day," he answers, "for making you think that I'm underestimating the situation. I'm not."

"Oh, Keefe," Sophie softens, her eyes—impossibly alight against the sunrays filtering in through the windows around them—his gilded cage. "I know. I know how important retrieving those memories is to you, more important than it could ever be to any of us," she shakes her head in self-reprimand, "I was unfair. I'm sorry."

Keefe grins again, a little crooked but wide and bright, inching towards her. "Are you hijacking my apology, Foster?"

"I—" her eyebrows pinch together, then, after exactly eight seconds, laughter bubbles up her throat, "I guess I am."

Keefe chuckles. "Mutual forgiveness?"

Sophie vigorously nods her head, walking to meet him halfway. She offers him a bent pinkie.

His eyes trail from her finger to her face in bemusement, the ice-blue (always) warm on her, a torch he has carried for far too long.

"It's a human thing," she explains, tries to shrug it off even as two lines of blush spread along the curves of her cheekbones. "We hook our pinkies together and make a promise."

"O-okay."

They touch and their heartbeats spike in tandem.

Keefe's whole body is a supernova–

–there are two fires inside of him, now, two twin flames of fondness and affection and so much more–

–and he cannot wait to ignite.

They're a phoenix—their relationship has almost collapsed so many times—and they will rise from the ashes.

He can get used to this.

"What are we promising?" he whispers, his breath wafting at a few locks of her golden hair.

Sophie bites down on her bottom lip. "I... thought it'd be obvious."

His breath hitches when she entwines her pinkie with his more firmly and wills her emotions to curl around him like a protective cocoon.

He has always been able to detect what she was feeling–

–a curse morphed, at last, into a blessing–

–with utmost clarity, even without as much as a brush along her skin, even with a hopeless distance between them, but some things are simply different, some things require to be spelled out.

"I don't know how to say this," Sophie laughs, almost breathless.

Keefe is trembling as he draws her in closer by the hand.

The sun, rightful king of the late morning sky, kisses their silhouettes, bathes this monumental moment of theirs in hues of gold.

"I promise I know."