The events of the previous night still echoed in her bones—his breath against her neck, the flicker of something raw and wanting in his eyes. But he’d walked away. Again.

“Running from me?” she muttered, watching the ripples stretch across the surface.

“You talk to yourself too much.”

Her head jerked up. He stood a few paces behind her, hair damp, sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing ink-black veins curling across his forearms—like storm clouds pressed into skin.

“You disappeared,” she said.

“You needed space.”

“That’s rich, coming from someone who bolts at the first sign of closeness.”

He approached slowly. “You think I’m afraid of you?”

“I think you’re afraid of us.” Her eyes held his. “Of what this could become.”

For a moment, the wind outside howled through the stone openings, as if the mountain itself had turned to listen.

He crouched beside her, not touching, but close enough that the heat of his body warmed her chilled skin. “You don’t understand what I’m made of, Eira. I wasn’t shaped for softness. Not anymore.”

“Maybe,” she said quietly, “but you want it. I can feel it in the way you look at me.”

His hand reached out—slow, deliberate—and trailed the back of his fingers along her jaw. Her breath hitched.

“I could burn you alive without meaning to,” he said, voice thick. “But I would never forgive myself if I did.”

“Then learn not to burn.”

A pause. Their faces inches apart now. Her heart pounded.

She placed her hand on his chest, right above where his heart would be. The thrum under her palm was faint… but real.

“I’m not asking for everything,” she whispered. “Just… stop hiding.”

His lips parted. A breath. Then he leaned in—not to kiss, but to press his forehead to hers. A quiet surrender. Tension thickened, swirling around them like smoke. No words. Just two beings, tethered by something neither yet dared to name.

And still, neither of them pulled away.