She settles on the bed.

It's a familiar place for her, one that stirs fondness in her chest. The thick furs of winter lay neatly folded along the bottom of the bed, kept handy for the lingering chill at night, and she curls her fingers in the hair. The musky smell of sweat and hay and metal clings to everything in the room; it's a scent she's grown to love, one that reminds her of him. Being back here, after over a year away, feels like a dream. Many nights in Dawnstar, as she tossed and turned on a bed carved from stone, she returned here in her mind.

And he was here, like he always was in her memories. She'd done everything she could to forget about him, something she'd never struggled to do before. The number of people she's left behind is nearly unfathomable; most of their faces have long faded from her conscious. But not Vilkas. He haunted her; she thought she saw him in crowds, dreamed of their nights together even as she slept alone. It had taken her a long time to come to terms with her feelings for him.

But the blossom of affection in her chest at the slightest remembrance of him, the near-constant worrying after his happiness, the little voice in her mind asking if he'd approve of the path she'd chosen: they all came too late. She's wished countless times that she'd succumbed to her longing to tuck herself back into his arms that night she left him, and she's pictured every way their reunion could play out, but the sight of him leaning against the wall, stony and cold, still takes her breath away.

"Vilkas—" She begins after several long moments of silence.

"I have nothing to say to you," he interrupts, tone harsh. She can see the pain in his eyes, and she knows he wants answers—but she also knows he's angry. How could he not be? Of all the scenarios she'd envisioned, this one always seemed most likely.

"Good. I came here to talk, not listen." He seems taken aback by this: the tension in his shoulders releases a bit; his scowl lets up. Though he doesn't say anything, she takes his silence as permission to continue—suddenly, though, her pseudo-scripted spiel seems inane.

"I'm not going to apologize," she announces after a moment of thought-gathering. "There's no point, and I'm not looking for forgiveness. I just think you deserve an explanation."

"Isn't that what Dawnstar was?" He interrupts. "I thought we were done."

"Do you want to be done?"

The question hangs heavy between them. They stare each other down, and, for the first time in her memory of their relationship, he makes her feel small, his eyes guarded and wary. Her heart is pounding in her chest; the adrenalin makes her sick. Finally, he lets out a long sigh and slides down the wall, letting his head fall back to rest against the masonry. He closes his eyes against her face, looking tired.

"Why did you come back?" He sounds so defeated that her breath catches in her throat, and she switches her gaze to the floor.

"I told you. I wanted to give you closure—"

"Closure?" His eyes snap open; she can feel his glare. "You've been gone over a year. Don't bullshit me, Mayenor. If you're not going to be honest with me, just leave. I'm done with your games."

He knows he's being harsh, and he sees her flinch—and that's something he never expected. Even faced with a dozen enemies, he's never seen her falter: that she wavers now makes him wonder. She sits there on his bed, fists clenched in her lap, and he aches to reach out to her, to comfort her. The longer they let the silence stretch, the more his anger dims.

"Just be honest with me, May. Is that so hard?" She chokes on an ironic laugh, shaking her head.

"Yeah," she breathes, staring at her hands. "It is. Have you ever known me to be a particularly honest person?"

"No," he answers, bluntly. "But I think I deserve it."

"You do." Her words are earnest, surprising him. "You deserve a hell of a lot more than that. You—" she cuts herself off almost angrily, still glaring at her lap, and Vilkas lets out a low breath. When he stands, her head snaps up, eyes wide as though she expects him to storm out. Instead, he crosses to the bed and sits beside her and covers her hand in his.

"Talk to me."

The sincerity, the gentleness in his words reminds her of that night in the bandit camp, when he advised her to enjoy simply being alive, and she feels herself relax at his touch. To anyone else, his entreaty is a modest one; but even when they were something of a couple, they rarely actually talked.

"I don't really know what to say," she admits, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

"Tell me why you really came back. When I left Dawnstar, I never thought I'd see you again—and you knew that. You're not here for my benefit."

"You're right." Her confession startles him, but there's a sense of relief, too. He hopes that he might finally get some answers. "I wanted to see you." She lets out a slow breath, pursing her lips together as she thinks. Eventually, she turns her head to look him in the eye.

"I had a fiancé in Cyrodiil," she tells him casually, studying his face for a reaction.

"And?" He prompts.

"He wouldn't come to Skyrim with me, so I left him behind. And there was a guy at the College—he probably thinks I'm dead by now. Then you already know Brynjolf—"

"I really don't want to hear this," Vilkas growls, trying not to clench his jaw.

"No, listen," she insists. "I don't miss any of them. I don't regret leaving them. I don't wonder what I missed out on. But after I left you…" She hesitates, then, with the same gleam of determination she carries into battle, plunges on. "I tried so hard to forget you, Vilkas, but even before you showed up at the Sanctuary, I couldn't."

He waits for some sort of finalization, something to let him know what it all means, but she just stares at him, apparently waiting for input, and he considers. A year ago, he would've killed to hear her speak these words—even now his heart is lodged in his throat, suffocating him. Despite all he's told himself since returning to Whiterun, he still loves her and suspects there will never be a day in which he doesn't. But to give into her so easily after all she's put him through seems weak. Still, he can see the fear behind her cold confidence, can feel her hands trembling under his, and knows that, for once, she's laid all her cards on the table.

"What are you trying to tell me, May?" He asks, voice lowering as his fingers twitch against the urge to curl with hers. He feels her nerves, can almost hear her heart pounding, but her eyes are strangely calm.

"Isn't it obvious?" The corners of her mouth tip into a hesitant smile. "I love you."