Author's Note: Hello lovely readers! HUZZAH! An update! As always, thank you for the reviews and kudos, it's greatly appreciated! I hope you enjoy.


Lady Sybil imagined herself on the other side of the drawing room windows – perhaps as a gardener's apprentice or a mechanic – and taking a private moment to peer into the illuminated room. What would she think if she knew nothing of the business of the Crawley family, or the Empire, or even the Force itself? Another party, the same as the hundreds that have taken place in this house. Footmen circling the room, collecting glasses and refilling them, two men in the corner – an Imperial officer and a Grantham official – sharing a laugh over something trivial. Nothing amiss, nothing to suggest anything other than a cordial partnership between planet and Empire.

Sybil took a steadying breath, loosening her grip on her champagne flute. Imagining she was outside Downton's drawing room instead of in it calmed her racing heart and steadied her nerves. She imagined herself peeking through the open windows to Mary, perhaps the only person more uncomfortable than her.

Mary was seething underneath it all, that was clear enough. Her hand was practically ready to crush her crystal flute. But the politician that she was, Mary was terribly good at hiding it underneath a perfect smile. If only it had been Mary who had been born Force-sensitive, she would be much better at hiding than Sybil, she thought suddenly, and instantly regretted it. Mary already spent days at a time at the very heart of the Empire on Coruscant, Sybil could never dream of wanting to add Force-sensitivity onto her sister's troubles.

Breathe. Trust in the Force.

While Mary was charming the room and plotting the destruction of the Empire, Sybil had retreated to the corner, desperately trying to avoid contact with any Imperial officer – including one Larry Grey.

She had tried to beg off the evening, thinking she had earned the right after that conversation with her father. His words still rung clear in her head, like an echo in the Force. Robert had argued she needed to make some sort of showing, at least for the dinner, otherwise the Imperials might start to get suspicious. More suspicious, that was. Sybil realized her father was right, of course, She had to play her part, just like everyone else.

Her mother had clearly been apprised of the situation. That much was evident as she kept shooting her nervous glances in between sips of her cocktail. Sybil could tell she wanted to stick to her like glue, but she had been roped into a conversation with some officer or another for the past ten minutes. With any luck, Sybil would be able to make her escape after dinner when the men were still in the dining room with their brandy and cigars. Yes, that shouldn't raise too many questions.

"Another drink, my lady," a voice somewhere behind her rattled her from her thoughts, so much so that the crystal champagne flute almost slipped from her gloved hand smashed on the floor.

"Thomas, you startled me," Sybil said smile, acknowledging the footman. She placed her empty flute on the silver tray and took another. "And thank you. God knows I need it to make it through this dinner."

She gasped suddenly, realizing what she said and spun around to face the footman. Heat creeped through her cheeks. "Oh, please forget I said that."

Thomas smiled ever so slightly. "Said what, my lady?"

It was odd, Sybil realized. That was the first time she thought she'd ever seen the footman actually smile. Granted, they were never in each other's company for more than the length of a dinner service, but there was something about Thomas that made it seem as if he had been born with a sullen expression plastered to his face. It was a relief, then, to see someone smile to her in confidence that evening. And before she realized it, the corners of Sybil's lips pulled upwards. She could feel the smile make its way to her eyes, the heat slowly dissipate from her face. "Thank you," she breathed.

The footman stood there for a moment longer, concern creeping into his features. "I know it's not my place, my lady, but… are you alright?"

Thomas's forwardness almost took her back. "Perfectly alright, all things considering. Why do you ask?"

"It's just… the rest of the family look at you like you're hanging off the edge of a cliff," he said in a low voice.

Sybil gazed at the room. First to her mother, and then to her father, and finally on her grandmother. All surrounded Imperials, enemies, ready to destroy them in an instant.

Edge of a cliff, indeed.

She quickly regained her composure and cleared her throat. "I thank you for your concern, Thomas, truly. But there's nothing you need concern yourself with. You should get on. I wouldn't want to make any trouble for you with Carson."

The footman bowed slightly from the neck. "My lady." And then he was off, mixed in with the rest of the crowds.

"Who was that you were talking to?"

Sybil did her best not to jump at the new voice but couldn't help but flinch at little. Golly, she really was on edge. She took rather large sip from her champagne flute to calm her nerves and turned to the familiar voice.

She smiled politely at Larry Grey and held in an unladylike groan.

"Was that your footman?" He asked in his usual haughty tone. The man was once again outfitted in his dark Imperial dress uniform, the coloured bars on his breast pocket denoting the rank of lieutenant. She'd known Larry her whole life, and in that uniform it was like she had never known him at all.

Sybil raised an eyebrow. "Am I not allowed to talk to a member of my own staff?"

"Well, of course, but…" he smiled snidely. "But it just looked like you need rescuing from a rather dreary conversion."

Good lord, Sybil sighed inwardly. This man was insufferable. "I'm quite capable of doing my own rescuing, thank you very much."

Larry laughed. "I have no doubt of that. But I do have someone who's very interested in meeting you. Officially, that is."

Sybil's brow furrowed as Larry gestured for her to follow him across the room. Her breath hitched every time she took a step further, and her heart thundered in her chest.

Breathe, feel the Force flow through you and surround you.

It somehow felt as if she'd circled the drawing room thrice over when Larry finally stopped at an officer speaking with Governor Callen.

"Grand Moff Tarkin, may I present Lady Sybil Crawley," he said.

When the officer faced her, it took all her strength to keep her smile steady. "Grand Moff Tarkin," she said, a little more breathless than she would have liked. "What a pleasure." The word honour almost escaped her lips out of habit, but even she didn't have it in her to muster that sentiment.

"The pleasure is mine, Lady Sybil," he said, taking her hand bowing over it slightly. "I confess, I was rather anxious about our official introduction."

"Oh?" Sybil asked sweetly. What the devil was he playing at? Judging from her father's words the other night the Empire all but knew who and what she was. So why was Grand Moff Tarkin – perhaps the most feared Imperial officer in the galaxy – playing with her? Why hadn't Inquisitors shown up on Downton's door and dragged her and her family away to an Imperial prison?

"I'm rather familiar with your sister, Lady Mary, as you can very well imagine," Tarkin explained. And… what was he doing? Was he smiling? Sybil didn't even think Tarkin's face was capable of such an expression. "She can be quite ferocious when she wants to be."

You have no idea, Sybil thought. She fought the urge to glare, and instead gripped the stem of her champagne flute so tight it might snap. Thank goodness she was wearing gloves, lest one of them see her knuckles turn white.

"She's passionate about her beliefs," Sybil said nonchalantly. Once again, she had to stop herself from saying the comment dryly. There was no way she could risk saying the wrong thing in the wrong way or falling into some verbal trap Tarkin was surely trying to set.

"Yes…" he said. "Yes, that much is quite evident. Tell me, Lady Sybil, is it a family trait?" He eyed her carefully, and Sybil couldn't deny it was making her quite uncomfortable. Sweat started to form on the back of her neck on and on the palms of her hands.

"I should think so, Moff Tarkin," Sybil said, taking another sip of her champagne for courage. "We, that is, my family care very deeply about Grantham."

"Yes, our Sybil is quite the humanitarian," Larry Grey chimed in. His voice surprised her; she had practically forgotten he was there at all. "She's taken it upon herself to conduct Grantham's relief missions."

"So I've heard, Lieutenant Grey," Tarkin drawled.

"It's the very least we can provide to planets who are less fortunate than ourselves," Sybil added.

"Quite the task," Tarkin said thoughtfully.

"It's a duty," Sybil corrected. A duty that was being taken away by him.

Don't glare don't glare don't glare.

She wanted to reach out to the Force – anything to calm her nerves, but she didn't dare so close to Tarkin. Sybil was almost certain he wouldn't be able to tell if she did, but she stopped herself. She couldn't, no, she wouldn't take that chance. Instead, she forced a smile onto her face. "A duty I take very seriously," she said evenly.

"I have no doubt of that, Lady Sybil," Tarkin smiled down at her. "Although, I do hope you take great care in these treacherous times. It's distressing to see such distasteful violence from the Rebellion on a fair system such as yours."

Sybil swallowed her fear as best she could. "Yes, it's left us all quite shaken."

"And I can't imagine the increased Imperial presence here bring you much comfort, after keeping to yourself for so long," Tarkin said thoughtfully.

He was trying to trap her into revealing herself, she knew it. Sybil took a deep breath to calm herself, and she played it off like she was considering his comment thoroughly.

"Me personally, or my family, Moff Tarkin?" She asked innocently, and – thank the Lord – she was spared further interrogation as Carson entered the drawing room to announce dinner.

Larry offered her arm to escort her into the dining room, and although Sybil wished to decline, she hooked her hand into the crook of his arm. Tarkin had disappeared into a group of Imperial soldiers, and as Larry helped her into her seat at the table and found his own, she couldn't help but smile into her napkin. Her mother and grandmother had clearly done the table settings with her in mind – Both Tarkin and Larry Grey were about as far from her and Violet's seats as they could possibly be. To have any hope of a conversation they would have to shout across the table, and although the Imperials never seemed to abide by the social niceties of Grantham, Sybil doubted it would come to that.

"I thought Carson would never announce dinner," Violet said softly to Sybil as she dished herself the first course from William's trey.

"It was rather good timing on his part," Sybil replied. "Though I could have done with five minutes earlier."

"Yes, I saw you trapped between those two… men," her grandmother practically sneered in their direction. "Though you seemed to handle yourself very well."

"As well as I could, I think." The whole conversation in fact filled her with dread.

"Sybil, dear, you were outnumbered by two odious Imperial officers and made it out without a scratch. Let's claim small victories where we can," she said, patting her hand comfortingly.

"What are you two ladies talking about?" Robert asked from Violet's other side. He'd just finished serving himself from the treys, which were now making their way around the massive table.

"Never you mind, dear," Violet said with a knowing smile. "We ladies are allowed to have some secrets."


To Mary's great surprise, the dinner wasn't completely horrible. She was seated next to Cousin Matthew, at least, who provided some levity to the entire ghastly situation. He was better than any Imperial officer, and at least now she could use the time sniff out his true allegiances. He looked nervous enough, seated at a dinner table full of Imperials, so that helped lower Mary's suspicions a little.

As the dinner progressed, she became so focused on Matthew it surprisingly took her mind off the fact that the Imperials seated around the table wanted to browbeat them into submission and destroy everything she stood for.

"I was talking with your friend Charles Blake earlier in the drawing room," Matthew saying in between bites of the venison from the hunting party a day earlier.

"Oh?" Mary asked. "He's usually so reserved at events like this." Indeed, she spotted him across the table, in between Lord Merton and an Imperial officer with his gaze directly fixated on his plate. There was a reason he wasn't the one arguing in the Senate chamber, after all. He was an excellent writer and researcher, but when it came to confrontation, he had no trouble letting Mary take the lead.

"I would never have guessed that," Matthew continued. "We spent a great deal of time talking about Coruscant."

"Do you miss it?" Mary suddenly asked, her heart fluttering as the words exited her lips. Had she overindulged in the spirits? No, that was impossible. She was always careful when it came to mixing alcohol and Imperial officials.

The question seemed to take Matthew back as well. He stopped cutting into his meal and gave her a deeply pensive look.

"Sometimes I do," he said finally, in a surprisingly soft tone. "I miss the variety of life, for one… but the more I think about it, I realize now how lonely I was there. Mother was with me, of course, but with her job and my job…" he trailed off for a moment, gazing to his mother who was deep in conversation with Lord Merton. "Well, it felt like we never saw each other. And I know you all are still weary of a stranger swooping in and usurping everything, but I finally know what it's like to be part of a large family. Believe me when I say I'm grateful for it."

Mary's heart was betraying her by skipping a beat, but she still couldn't help but wonder if there was more to Cousin Matthew than he was revealing. He couldn't quite look her in the eyes as he said the words, which was a pity because they were quite beautiful. Mary almost laughed at herself. Weeks ago she wanted nothing to do with Matthew Crawley, and resented the very idea of him. And what was she doing now? Clinging to his words like a giddy schoolgirl. A sense of caution had managed to overpower the rest of her feelings, however, and made her more determined than ever to find out what Matthew was hiding.

Mary tried to hide the relief in her face once the dessert course was brought out and served around the table. Mrs. Patmore's raspberry meringue – a winning dish at Grantham dinner parties.

"I do wish you luck," Mary said quietly to Matthew as she served herself from Carson's tray.

"What for?" Matthew asked with a laugh.

"The after-dinner cigars and brandy. Try to avoid the topic of politics at all costs, and keep subjects to the mundane," she explained. "Whatever Sir Anthony Strallan talks about, follow his lead."

"That's surprising talk, coming from you."

"You forget that politics is my business, and best kept to the Senate chamber. Any talk outside it is a recipe for awkwardness. Mama and Papa did well with the invitations, though. At least you all won't be outnumbered."

"Remind me to thank them later," Matthew smiled. "At least at that first gala Robert was at my side the whole time. Now it feels like I've been thrown in at the deep end."

"You'll learn to swim soon enough," Mary reassured.

"Good God!"

A shout came from across the table, startling Mary. Her eyes widened at the sight of Governor Callen spitting the raspberry meringue into his napkin. The room suddenly became still and silent; everyone was staring at the governor in distress. No one dared move, not even her grandmother.

"I'm terribly sorry, Lady Grantham," Governor Callen finally said. "I've just had a mouthful of salt."

Cora's brow visibly furrowed as she brought her own fork to her mouth. It took less than a bite to determine the dish as inedible. "Everyone! Put down your forks," she announced and then swiftly turned to the butler who looked like he was about to faint. "Carson, remove this and bring some fruit, bring cheese, bring anything to take this taste away." She then turned to the governor and started to apologize profusely.

As the whirlwind of footmen removed everyone's desserts, Mary caught Matthew's eye, and suddenly couldn't contain a fit of giggles. Desperately, she tried to hide them by laughing into her napkin, but then Matthew started laughing, which made her laugh all the more.

Goodness, she really had to stop. Otherwise, the Imperials would think they had played some practical joke on them. Still, it really was Callen's fault. He'd been to enough formal dinners at Downton to know that one only started eating after one's hostess took the first bite. If he'd been polite and let her mother take that mouthful of salt first, they wouldn't be in this mess. So truly, Governor Callen only had himself to blame.

Mary let out another series of giggles before composing herself. Laughing at the expense of an Imperial officer was something she wouldn't dare pass up.

"Fains I be Mrs. Patmore's kitchen maid when the news of this gets out," Robert commented from across the table.

"Poor girl. Do you think we should send in a rescue party?" Sybil asked.

Mary could help but smile at her youngest sister's comment. Carson and Mrs. Hughes should be enough of a rescue party, but they really should go down and reaffirm the fact that the kitchen staff would not be executed for some accidentally salty meringue. In fact, Mary would have hugged Mrs. Patmore if she could.

"You must think us very disorganized, Governor," Edith said cordially.

"These things happen," Callen replied, taking his second or third large gulp of wine.

Mary felt another giggle rise in her throat when she caught a glance at Tarkin, silently glaring over the whole scene. She wouldn't doubt it in the least if he thought they'd tried to poison the lot of them, but even he was smart enough to realize it had been a meager attempt at best.

Mary turned to Matthew. "I believe that display shall tide me over for a month."

"That long?" Matthew asked.

"Well, perhaps not that long. But I could absolutely kiss Mrs. Patmore if propriety allowed for it."


"There's Mrs. Patmore in front of the firing squad," Thomas muttered to himself as he and William were bringing the trays of salty meringue back down to the kitchen.

"It was just an honest mistake," William argued.

"They might not see it that way," the elder footman replied.

To that, William couldn't help but give a resigned sigh.

When news of the salty meringue and its victim finally did make its way downstairs, Mrs. Patmore was predictably a nervous, babbling wreck.

"It's not so bad," Anna said comfortingly, rubbing the cook's back as she sniffled into a handkerchief. "No one's died."

Not yet, Thomas thought. Though, from what he remembered of the reactions in the dining room it had only been that bastard Tarkin with a scowl on his face. The rest of the Imperial officers had worn various of expressions of horrified to slightly amused. It cheered him to think the rest of the Imperial entourage thought Callen a snake as well. And if not that then at least someone deserving of a spoonful of salty dessert.

No, as much as he liked to tease, he doubted this incident would result in any direct punishment towards the Crawleys. And that suited him very well. Despite himself, the conversation between him and Lord Grantham about Lady Sybil was a constant echo in his head, and still he found himself worrying about her. About them all, really.

Dear Lord, if O'Brien could read the thoughts in his head she wouldn't recognize him at all.

"I don't understand it!" Mrs. Patmore cried. "It must have been that Daisy!"

Right away, Daisy's gaze shot up to Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes with a pleading look about her. "But I never –"

The butler held up a hand to calm her. "Don't worry, Daisy. You're not in the line of fire, here."

"Callen's not likely to be so forgiving, embarrassed as he was," Thomas muttered, to himself more than anything, but apparently Mrs. Hughes heard his comment because she glared at him something wicked.

"Thank you, Thomas," the housekeeper said, practically fuming. "We'll have no more of your cheek. Now, get on to the dining room to clear away the rest of the plates."

Thomas was going to tell he didn't take orders from her, but Mr. Carson's glare towards him conjured no argument. He ground his teeth and did as he was told.

The ladies were already making their way into the drawing room, and he, William, and Molesley who came down from Crawley House to help with the dinner were able to clear away the dishes before the cigars finished making their way around the table. It was odd, seeing so many Imperial officers in such a formal setting, their dark uniforms clashing with the warmth of the dining room. Thomas could tell right away which ones had been brought up in luxury that rivaled Downton Abbey – those that laid back in their seats, perhaps a leg was outstretched or crossed at the knee. They were relaxed, they didn't gaze at the footmen like a second head had sprouted from their shoulders. For the rest, however, it was clear formal dinners such as this were few and far between. Their backs were ramrod straight against their chairs, like they were standing to attention on the bridge of a Star Destroyer.

As Thomas picked up one of the last plates from the table and set in on his tray, he spotted Abram out of the corner of his eye whisper something into Callen's ear and then exit the dining room. Thomas almost laughed. Abram was trying rather hard to make it look like he wasn't rushing out in a huff. Thomas knew he had to see him. He would be able to get away easily enough – the footmen weren't expected to stay in the dining room when the men took their cigars and brandy, though Carson liked to stand outside the room in case he was needed. Besides, they could make do with William and Molesley if they had to. Mrs. Patmore was likely still fussing about in the kitchen, so they wouldn't miss him if he snuck out for a few minutes.

Abram was right where Thomas expected him to be – hiding in the shadows of the yard outside the service entrance, leaning with his arms crossed against a shed. Even in the dark, he could see the smug look on his face.

"Why are you looking so happy?" Thomas asked after sharing a long kiss.

"Why do you think, you daft man," Abram laughed. "My entire Imperial career thus far has been worth Callen taking a huge spoonful of salty meringue."

"You don't mean that," Thomas said.

Abram laughed again. "No, I don't really, but it was riotously funny all the same."

"Lady Mary was practically giggling like a schoolgirl," Thomas said. "Do you think anyone saw her?"

"I doubt it. Everyone was either staring at Callen or their dessert plate."

That eased Thomas's mind more than he cared to admit. And then something hit him like a punch to his gut, a realization he had long tried to bury deep within his soul. He cared for the family. He cared whether they were in the Empire's line of fire. Perhaps it was due to the loyalty instilled in him since his life of service began as a boy of fourteen – and somewhere along the way he actually started to believe it. And though he didn't know exactly how deep the Crawleys' ties were with the Rebellion, he knew the Empire couldn't go on as it was. Too many systems were angry, too many had been enslaved, and too many knew the Empire as what it was, not what it pretended to be. If the Crawleys were to be on the opposite side of the Empire in a war, then Thomas wanted to do what he could. Downton Abbey was his whole life; it was all he ever knew. And he couldn't give that up, not for anything in the galaxy.

Thomas pressed a deep kiss on Abram's list as his thoughts became clear.

"What was that for?" Abram asked once they separated, though their noses were practically touching.

"Because…" Thomas swallowed. "I realized that it might be the last one between us for a long time."

"Well, maybe not," Abram smiled, dimples revealing themselves on his cheeks. "I've decided to stay."

Thomas blinked, wondering if he heard him correctly. "You're joking," he said hitting him playfully on the arm. "You hate it here."

"I realized I hate the Empire, not Grantham," Abram explained, his words no louder than a whisper. "And… I realized a life away from all this wouldn't be worth it without you."

"You… you mean it?"

"Yes, you daft man!" Abram practically cried with joy. Thomas could hear his voice as it caught in his throat.

"But the danger, the increased security…"

"I can continue playing the part, don't you worry," Abram reassured him with a kiss on the corner of his lips. "And if it does all go to shit, well… they'll be too busy fighting each other to notice us making an escape."

Thomas laughed, and was almost too blissfully happy to notice tears were streaking down his face. He didn't know how much of that was true, but he was willing to find out.

"You're properly mad, you know that?" Thomas asked, clutching Abram's face. "You're absolutely mad for not getting out while you still have a chance."

"I thought about that," Abram replied with a knowing smile. "But somehow I knew if I left now you wouldn't be there with me. And that wounded me a lot more than staying within the Empire's ranks."

"I just can't make myself believe it."

"Believe this," Abram whispered, and they were locked together in a kiss once more.


"I knew I'd find you in here," Sybil smiled as she walked through the entrance of Downton's massive hangar bay. The lights were mostly dimmed, making the place feel more intimate that it was. Only a few oil lamps were light at the base of the Verdant, where Tom Branson was tinkering away under its hull. His captain's jacket was tossed to the side, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up just above this elbows.

Her voice must have startled the captain, because she could see him jump a little from behind on the wings.

"My lady," Tom said with a smile and a nod when he recomposes himself. And then gave her a quizzical look. "Aren't you supposed to be dining with the fancy folk?"

"I managed to get out while the men were still in the dining room," Sybil replied. A silent passed between them. All that could be heard was the rustle of the wind in the trees and the low humming of the fluorescent lighting. "How is she?" Sybil asked finally, sparing a gaze at the Grantham yacht.

"Fighting fit, my lady," Tom replied.

"She's quite recovered from our previous journey?"

Tom hesitated before answering. They hadn't spoken of the incident since it occurred, and even with all the Imperial officials cooped up in the dining room, it still seemed risky to speak of it now.

"It would take more than an Imperial blockade to bring her down," Tom smiled, tapping the vessel's wing with his palm lightly.

Sybil attempted a smile, but the mere memory of coming up on the blockade made all the worse by Tarkin's interrogation in the drawing room sent a pang through her heart.

"They know, don't they?" Tom asked quietly, his expression falling in concern. He approached her – almost scandalously close – and rested a palm on her arm.

Sybil nodded, looking down at the hangar floor. "Mary found out right away, she was there to greet me when he returned. She saw the Imperial escort. She promised she wouldn't tell anyone, and I don't believe she has."

Sybil hesitated, but Tom gave her a slight nod to continue.

"I told my grandmother… a few days before the attack, actually," she said, taking comfort from the fact that Tom was so close to her. But she couldn't meet his eyes. "And my father knows, which means my mother probably knows as well…" she swallowed, purposely leaving out the fact the Empire was interested in her, personally. Sybil realized then how badly she wanted to tell Tom her secret, to have him to confide in.

Her grandmother was a great source of guidance and comfort, of course, and she was probably the only the person on the planet who understood how she felt. Violet had been there for Sybil's entire life – Tom had only come on as the Verdant's captain a mere year ago, right about the time she started doing the relief missions. But they had the same spirit, the same determination to do what was right, he knew the importance of their work more than anyone.

Sybil told herself that she was protecting Tom by not telling him of her abilities – the fewer people knew the better, after all. And now that the Empire's threat loomed over the planet, she allowed herself these small moments where she could feel the true power of the Force surround her. She could feel how it weaved in and out of the trees, she could feel it in the ocean waves, in the horses in Downton's stables. But Sybil could feel the Force cling to Tom Branson, in a way that drew herself to him.

"Tom, they'll no longer let me conduct missions," Sybil found her voice breaking as she said the words.

"Well, I can't say I'm entirely surprised," Tom said, weaving his fingers through her own. "Though I can't help but be disappointed."

"No one is more disappointed than I am, Tom," she replied, her hand clutching his. "You, of all people know how important this work is to me, how important it is for the galaxy. I feel like the Empire has already won before we've had a chance to fight back."

"I'm disappointed," Tom smiled knowingly, "because it means you and I won't get to spend as much time together."

Sybil practically gaped at the man before her, her hand still entwined in his. And then, inexplicably, she felt her heart flutter.

Because she realized she felt the same way.

"Tom…" she breathed.

"You know I loathe the Empire, Sybil," he said, looking down at his feet for a moment and chuckling. "But I'd rather take them on with you than with anyone else."

"It could be a long time," she said. Her fingers were clutching his a little tighter. "You don't mind waiting?"

"Oh, Sybil," Tom smiled with relief, and his shoulders relaxed like he'd been carrying the weight of the planet. "I'd wait forever."

His lips rushed to meet hers but hesitated at the last moment. Sybil grinned. "Yes, you can kiss me."

And he did.

Sybil raised herself onto the toes of her feet to match his height, and her arms made their way around him until they rested on his shoulders and the back of his head. She could feel his hands on the small of her back, tangling on her hair.

For a moment, the rest of the world was forgotten.

For a moment, everything was as it should be.