ShipMistress' Shipping Harbour

I blink at him, baffled, pausing halfway through tearing off a piece of bread. “Is what now?”

“Tyrrish kissing.” He leans forward, eyes gleaming like I’m withholding state secrets. “You know… this whole thing they say the Tyrs do? Is it really better than ‘normal’ kissing?” His fingers put air quotes between us, and it looks just as ridiculous as I always imagined it.

But I can’t laugh about it and only stare, my bread forgotten in my hand. “Ridoc, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He throws his hands up, nearly stabbing Sawyer with his fork. “Oh, come on, Vi. Don’t play dumb. I have to know!”

“Know what?” I glance at Rhiannon and Sawyer for backup, but Sawyer just leans back in his chair, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Can’t have been that good if she doesn’t even remember,” he says, trying to hide his sly smile in his coffee.

Rhiannon elbows him sharply before turning to me, her brows pulled together in thought. “You’ve never heard of Tyrrish kissing before?” she asks, sounding honestly surprised, and I shake my head.

I don’t even have to lie about this; I have no idea what they’re talking about.

”It’s supposed to be…” Rhi begins, then frowns. ”Well, I don’t actually know what it is. Just that there are all these rumours about how Tyrrish kissing is… famous? It’s supposed to be unforgettable. Special.”

Ridoc nods, with emphasis. “Exactly. And it’s not about oral sex, either, as I once thought. It really is supposed to only be kissing, mouth to mouth. Just… different. Legendary, even.”

I blink again, even more confused now. “Kissing is… legendary now?”

I mean, not that kissing Xaden is something I could ever forget. Gods, the way he holds me like I’m precious yet at the same time doesn’t treat me like I’m breakable, it’s everything. Every fiber of my being yearns to have him like that again. If only he would give me the one thing I need, full disclosure. If only I could trust him…

“Well, it’s supposed to be something more than just ordinary kissing,” Sawyer chuckles into his mug, drawing me out of my thoughts. “Some intense kind of foreplay, or whatever.”

“Well… in my defense,” I argue, sitting up straighter, “that’s not exactly the kind of knowledge one picks up while preparing to be a scribe.”

The three of them just stare at me, identical deadpan expressions.

“What?”

Ridoc lets out a heavy sigh and shakes his head as if I’m a lost cause. “Violet. You have a Tyrrish boyfriend.”

My cheeks flame instantly. “He’s not my— I mean, we’re not— That’s—” I stammer, choking on the words as all three of them lean closer. “It’s complicated.”

They groan in unison, Sawyer dropping his forehead to his palm while Rhiannon mutters something about denial and stubbornness.

Ridoc shakes his head though, eyes still pleading. “Zihnal save me. You’re sitting on answers the rest of us would kill for, and you don’t even know it?”

My lips twitch into a small grin. “There are other Tyrs still in the quadrant,” I remind him. “You could ask one of them.”

“And let Sloane or Imogen mock me for the rest of my life for not knowing what it is?” Ridoc levels me with an expression of pure horror. “No chance. You are my only hope, Vi. Please! Are you seriously telling me that you’re flying off to shag your Tyrrish not-boyfriend every other week, and you still haven’t figured out what makes his kissing legendary?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “We don’t—”

Sawyer interrupts me with a snort. “Sure you don’t.”

“We aren’t!” I glare at him. “I told you we’re not together. It’s—”

“It’s complicated,” Rhiannon sighs. “Yeah, you’ve said so before.”

I throw her an apologetic look, hating myself for not being able to tell her the truth. But at least for this specific part, I don’t have to keep secrets.

“Listen,” I begin, turning back to Ridoc, who’s clearly too invested in this topic for his own good. “Xaden is a fantastic kisser, I’ll openly admit that much. But I think that’s more about him and…”—I bite my lip but force myself to continue, to be honest—“and my feelings for him, rather than any special technique. I have no idea what this Tyrrish kissing is supposed to be. And… things between us aren’t exactly such that I’m going to find out anytime soon either.”

Ridoc leans back with a groan, dragging a hand down his face like this is somehow personally painful for him. “Gods, Vi. This is torture. You’re wasting the opportunity of a lifetime!”

Rhiannon, her expression a bit softer at my open confession, raises her eyebrow at Ridoc. “You do realise that you sound ridiculous right now, right?”

“Ridiculous?” Ridoc gasps, as if she’s just insulted his honour. “No, Rhi. I’m scientifically curious. There are rumours, decades of them! For all my life, I’ve been wondering about this, whether it’s real, what it is.” He slaps the table for emphasis, drawing annoyed glances from the next table over. “And Vi here is in the perfect position to answer all my questions.”

“I am not in any position—” I begin, but it’s useless.

“Bet she’s been in plenty of positions,” Sawyer mutters with a sly smirk, and Rhiannon smacks him again. Harder.

Ridoc leans forward, voice dropping conspiratorially. “All I’m asking for is one little detail, Vi. Just one. Is it… slower? Faster? More tongue? Less? Do they—”

“Oh, Dunne, give me strength. Will you just stop?” I slap my bread down onto my plate, half mortified, half ready to strangle him. My patience is very quickly running out right now. “I told you, I don’t know, okay? As far as I’m aware, Xaden’s never kissed me in any noticeably different way than others before him. So there’s nothing I could tell you right now, no matter how many times you ask.”

“Okay, I get it,” Ridoc concedes, but the tone of his voice is too cheerful to convince me. “You don’t know. But you could try and figure it out, right? For me? Pay more attention the next time you two kiss?”

Rhiannon groans again, and this time, even Sawyer joins her.

Ridoc just beams like it’s Solstice. “Excellent. Then that’s settled.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Why am I even talking to you?”

But I know the answer. Because they’re my friends, and I love them, even when they pester me for information I don’t have.

Even when I’m lying to them about the information I do have.

Rhiannon puts an admirable effort into steering our conversations towards other topics like the progress of our first years, and I gladly engage with more enthusiasm than I really feel. This, at least, is a topic I can talk openly about with them, even as I don’t really want to.

But even that isn’t enough to steer my thoughts from the question Ridoc so thoroughly planted into my head.

What in Amari’s name is Tyrrish kissing?

. o O o .

When I enter Xaden’s room at the Samara outpost after flying through the night, I find it empty, and I’m not quite sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing. On the one hand, I long to talk to Xaden, to maybe, somehow, fix things between us. But on the other hand, we’re more often fighting than talking lately, and that is most definitely not what I want.

And then there’s the question about the Tyrrish kissing still ghosting through my mind, where I simultaneously crave an answer and am scared to even bring the topic up.

So maybe it’s good that I have hours to kill before I actually talk to him, with only my book keeping me company. Well, and the letter Xaden left for me on his desk, with my name written in his neat, elegant handwriting on the front.

Reading it makes me smile, all the little tidbits about his youth. About the things he, Garrick, and Bodhi did for fun, about how he knew Soleil and the others, just glimpses into the life he led before the rebellion.

But as much as I enjoy learning all these things about his past… It’s the secrets he keeps now and how they will influence our future that have me on edge. How can he expect me to trust him when he’s keeping so many secrets? When I don’t even know what it is he truly feels for me?

By the time the door to his room finally creaks open, long after nightfall, I’ve already given up on reading, the book just a comforting weight in my lap as my eyes scan the mountainous landscape outside and the stars above them. Xaden slips inside, his shadows a wispy mess around his feet, and shuts the door with the soft click of someone who can never really let his guard down.

His eyes, even darker in the pulsing waves of the mage light, flick over me, scanning me from head to toe like he’s seeing me for the first time all over again. “You’re still awake.” His voice is low, roughened by a long day.

I shrug, trying to act casual when my pulse is anything but. “I didn’t want to be presumptions. This is your bed, after all.”

“If that’s really how you feel then you could have requested a separate quarter,” he points out as he crosses the room to the small chest in the corner, his voice tense and… hurt? “But you didn’t. This is our room, Vi. Our bed.”

Is it, though?

I know he said this room is only for him and me, that he’s not bringing anyone else here. But still, things between us feel too complicated to just act as if everything’s fine. So I don’t reply, just let my gaze drop back to my book and hope this tense awkwardness isn’t setting the theme for the entire night.

Thankfully, he doesn’t press, giving me the space to figure out my thoughts on my own. Instead he takes off his uniform shirt with unhurried precision, folding it neatly and pulling a clean black one from the chest. I bite the inside of my cheek and keep my eyes fixed on the page in front of me, determined not to watch the long line of his back, the play of muscles across his shoulders. How the light plays over his tawny skin, the silver scars gleaming.

“So… how’s the week been here at Sarama?” I ask, simply to breach the awkward silence in any way—even though I’m not sure this is any less awkward.

He pulls the shirt over his head, muffling his voice. “Uneventful. Except for the weather, maybe. It’s been uncommonly cold at night, or so I’ve been told. But at least the sky’s been clear.”

I nod, my eyes gliding over the page in front of me, yet unable to hold on to a single word. “Same at Basgiath,” I murmur, flipping a page I haven’t actually read. “Except for the rain on Tuesday—it soaked us through during formation and had us all chattering in battle brief.”

And are we really talking about the weather now?

I let out a low scoff and shake my head at my own silliness, and Xaden’s gaze flicks toward me, sharp but amused.

“How are the new first-years holding up?” he asks, and for the second time in just as many days, I’m actually grateful for the conversation to shift towards them.

I give a shrug, trying to remember something I could tell him. “Most of them are holding up as well as one might expect from people who trained to become riders for all their lives. Challenges are going well. Even Sloane accepts help now and trains with Imogen.”

“And you?” He tugs the hem of the shirt into place, voice casual but intent. “How are you doing?”

That draws a low unamused huff from me. “Isn’t Bodhi keeping you informed about everything I do?” I try to keep my voice teasing, but the sting in it is real. “I won all my challenges, thanks to your training. I’m not in any danger, not a liability.”

At that, Xaden frowns, his lips pressed tight. “No, Bodhi only informs me about anything major happening, on all fronts. Not giving me detailed reports about your movements or well-being. And while it’s good to hear that you’re holding your own, that’s not what I meant.” He bends to untie his boots.

“Then what do you mean?” I ask, sharper than I intended. Gods, why do I never know where I stand when it comes to him? I wish I could know what’s on his mind, in his heart, at least once.

Xaden pulls his boots off, then settles on the edge of the bed, glancing over at me with an intense expression. “I mean what’s up with you, Violence?” he says, voice low and earnest. “What question is swirling through your mind that you’re unsure about?”

I freeze, my breath catching.

“I can see how it’s eating at you.” His tone is soft, almost gentle even. “It’s written all over that beautiful face of yours. Whatever it is, just ask.”

I clutch the book tighter in my lap. He told me I could ask him anything. That he would never lie to me, tell me everything I want to know. And asking him about what it is he truly feels for me, that would be the perfect test, wouldn’t it? It’s not strategy or classified information, nothing that would endanger anyone should Dain pluck this memory from my mind.

But it would leave me vulnerable to Xaden in a way I’m not sure I can take right now.

“What is Tyrrish kissing?”

The question is out before I can even think about it. It’s a good question, also nothing worth being kept secret. But it’s also not something I actually planned to ask, and warmth rushes to my cheeks as I prepare myself for his teasing comeback.

Xaden goes utterly still, though, the kind of stillness that means I’ve caught him off guard, and when I glance up at him, I find an expression of open bafflement on his face.

But he catches himself quickly, and when he finally speaks, his voice is careful, guarded. “Why would you want to know?”

I tighten my grip on the book in my lap. “That’s not how this works, Xaden. You promised you’d answer my questions, not ask back.”

Something flickers across his face—guilt, regret, something I can’t untangle. He swallows hard, then nods once. “You’re right.”

He drags a hand through his hair, the motion restless in a way I almost never see. “I just didn’t expect…” He swallows, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath.”Tyrrish kissing is not something I can explain, Violet. Not properly. I could show you, but…”

“But?” I prompt when he doesn’t finish.

His gaze pins mine, full of earnest intent. “But I promised to only kiss you if you ask me to.”

My breath catches. Of course. Tyrrish kissing isn’t just a definition in some book—it’s… it’s kissing. Him kissing me.

Heat rushes to my face, and I hate that I can’t stop it. Of course I want to kiss him. I’ve wanted it every day since Resson, even when I told myself I shouldn’t. Even when I tried to convince myself I couldn’t trust him. Wanting him has never been the problem; that never went anywhere. Neither has loving him.

The ache of it makes my chest tight, but determination coils right alongside it, gnawing at me. Amari help me, I don’t want to walk away again without him giving me an honest answer. Even if it’s just something as silly as this.

I nod, pulse hammering in my throat. “I want you to show me. Only kissing, though.”

For a moment, a shadow crosses his expression, something raw, but then he schools it into the saddest, smallest smile. “Of course.”

Xaden rises to his full height, unfolding with a predator’s grace, and for a moment I forget how to breathe. Gods, he’s so fucking beautiful. Each step he takes towards me is deliberate, unhurried, the air between us thickening until it feels like my pulse is echoing in the silence.

When he stops in front of me, he extends a hand, and I hesitate only long enough to snap my book shut before sliding my fingers into his. His palm is warm, calloused, steady, the slide of his skin against mine making me swallow. I fumble with the book, nearly letting it drop to the ground, but the way his thumb brushes over the back of my hand steals every scrap of focus I have left.

He draws me up, slow and controlled, until I’m standing with him in the middle of the room. His eyes never leave mine, not for a heartbeat, as his other hand lifts, fingers ghosting against my cheek before settling to cradle my face.

I swear the world narrows to just this moment, just his gaze, just the promise hanging between us.

When he leans in, it’s agonisingly slow, his breath mingling with mine until I’m dizzy with anticipation. His scent of mint and leather is in every breath, seeping into me, filling me.

And then—finally—his lips brush over mine.

It’s so soft. Softer than I expected. This kiss has nothing of the consuming fire of our usual kisses, not teeth and heat and the frantic crash of bodies. Just the faintest pressure, tentative, testing.

A thread of disappointment coils low in my chest—

—until I realise that he doesn’t stop.

The kiss goes on, stretching like spun sugar. His mouth lingers against mine, then withdraws just enough to hover, our breaths tangling, lips grazing but not quite pressing. It makes my pulse skitter wildly, my skin prickling with awareness that leaves me torn between wanting more and to simply stay in this moment forever.

When he continues, it’s with the slowest slide, his lips gliding over mine with devastating patience. His tongue flicks barely against me, featherlight, retreating before I can chase it.

Gods, what is happening? This is nothing against how he kissed me before, how we destroyed my room a few months ago. And yet, my knees threaten to buckle, heat coiling low in my stomach as want builds, unbearable and unrelieved. It’s so different, so unexpected, so…

We’re barely touching, just his hand still holding mine, the other on my face, our mouths joined in this torturous slow rhythm. I’m craving more so I lightly place my hand on his forearm, and just this touch alone already feels so much more intimate than it has any right to be.

My body is trembling with the effort not to press closer. But the way Xaden holds me makes it clear the distance is part of it, the longing. His hand tightens against my jaw, steadying me, holding me right there—like this kiss is something I need to endure as much as enjoy.

And I do enjoy it.

Every brush of his lips drags me deeper, every shared breath steals another piece of me I can’t take back. And gods, I don’t want to.

This should be nothing, just a series of sweet chaste kisses. And yet, I feel more exposed, more claimed, than when he’s had me pinned beneath him, all of this feeling like the most intimate thing he’s ever done to me. My entire body is shaking with longing for this sweet torture, the slow, ardent way he’s giving me everything and not enough.

His mouth keeps moving over mine with patient devastation, featherlight, just the faintest glide, the whisper of contact. His breath is hot against my lips, spilling into me as though he’s determined to share every ounce of air between us. Every now and then, he deepens the kiss, just by a fraction, a slow press before he pulls back again until we’re barely touching again, letting me chase him without ever quite catching.

When his tongue finally slides against mine, it’s fleeting, a single stroke that sparks through me before he withdraws. I gasp, and he does it again—teasing, coaxing, until I’m leaning up into him, desperate to return the motion, to keep him from pulling away.

It goes on and on, timeless, endless. His lips tracing mine, retreating, returning. His tongue glides just enough to ignite a hunger that never quite finds satisfaction. He breathes into me, and I breathe him in, until I’m dizzy, until the room sways and all that anchors me is the steady grip of his hand on my jaw.

A strange flame simmers in my chest, not the scorching fire of desire I know so well, but something sweeter, slower, more unbearable. It feels like it’s tearing me apart, unraveling me one trembling breath at a time.

I don’t know how long we stand there. A minute. An hour. Forever.

But when he finally eases back, my lips are tingling, my chest is heaving, and my cheeks are wet with tears I hadn’t even realised were falling. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing ragged, as though the restraint cost him dearly. He swallows, hard, before he can speak.

“This,” he murmurs, his voice rough, almost breaking, “is Tyrrish kissing. Not heat. Not hunger. Just the lightest of intimacy turned on its head. Fleeting kisses from a time where love and marriage didn’t mean the same thing. Today, it’s used as a promise.” He steps closer, just the tiniest bit, his thumb lightly grazing against my lower lip. “The promise that I could kiss you for the rest of my life and would never get enough of it.”

…because I’ll live with my mouth attached to yours if I do it whenever I want.

His words from weeks ago echo through my mind, and I exhale a shaky breath, almost a sob even. Because I know what this was.

It was a promise, a declaration. Spoken without a single word, written with every single touch of our lips.

I still need to hear him say the words. And yet, this settled something deep inside me, a step in the right direction.

Not just that he answered my question.

But also that he revealed what’s inside his heart, in a way that means more to him than words.

I lean into him, his warmth, steady and grounding, and allow a few more tears to leak from my eyes, too overwhelmed and shaken to stop them. I don’t quite know where this will leave us. Whether this means he’ll open up more now, whether it’ll be easier for me to trust him. But I do know one thing.

This moment just now, this ‘kiss’—it was ours.

Ridoc will have to find his answers somewhere else.

. o O o .