#complex relationship

As he entered the room, his eyes fell on you—sitting gracefully at the piano, your fingers dancing across the keys with a fluid elegance that struck him silent. The soft glow of the room illuminated the delicate movement of your hands, each note resonating with a raw emotion he had not expected to find in this space.

You didn’t notice him at first, completely absorbed in the music. Aventurine lingered in the doorway, watching you with an intensity he rarely allowed anyone to witness. His usual guarded demeanor faltered for a moment, the mask of charm and bravado slipping as he admired the way the music seemed to flow through you, as if it was part of your very soul.

Finally, you paused, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper. It was then that you turned to find him standing there, his usual smirk replaced with a rare, genuine expression—one of awe.

"Didn't expect to find you here," you said with a teasing smile, your hands resting on the piano keys. "I didn't know you were a fan of music."

Aventurine stepped closer, his earring catching the light. "I appreciate all forms of art," he replied, his voice a mix of amusement and sincerity. "But I must admit, I didn't expect this from you."

You chuckled softly, a playful glint in your eyes. "I guess I have a few surprises up my sleeve."

He walked around the piano, his gaze never leaving you. "I should have known. You're full of mysteries."

Your fingers hovered over the keys again, as if debating whether to continue playing. Aventurine watched you carefully, his eyes intense yet tender. He stepped behind you, leaning in just close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence.

"I'd like to hear more," he said quietly, his voice low and almost vulnerable. The usual confidence in his words softened, revealing a hint of something deeper. "But this time... let me join you."

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze flickering to him. Then, with a small nod, you placed your hand on the keys, inviting him into this intimate moment.

As the music resumed, Aventurine found his own rhythm, not in the notes, but in the unspoken connection between you. Each sound was a step closer, each chord a bridge built between the two of you. The game of life was full of risks, but for the first time, Aventurine felt that maybe—just maybe—some risks were worth taking.

The Astral Express hummed with its usual rhythm, but inside your cozy little room, a quiet atmosphere settled. You had been practicing with your bow earlier, but tonight, something called to you—a need to express yourself differently. So, you decided to take a chance. With a deep breath, you reached for the guitar hidden in the corner of the room and began to strum, unsure of the melody that would come.

As your fingers found their way, the sound of the guitar filled the space with warmth. The soft, melancholic tune seemed to escape from you effortlessly, reflecting the longing and curiosity you often felt. You hadn’t played for anyone yet, not here, not on the train. But tonight, you needed to.

Oblivious to the quiet music, March wandered down the hallway, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had been busy capturing moments all day, and now her mind was buzzing with thoughts of her mysterious past. But then she heard it—an unfamiliar sound. She stopped, curious, her eyes wide. The soft notes of a guitar? Was it you?

March, being ever the curious spirit, couldn’t resist. She peeked around the doorframe, her heart racing with excitement and anticipation. There you were, completely absorbed in the music. Your eyes were closed, and your fingers moved across the strings as though it was second nature to you.

She took a small step forward, her breath catching in her throat. It was a side of you she hadn’t seen before. The way the music seemed to flow from your very being, the way your body swayed ever so slightly with the rhythm, captivated her.

You paused mid-strum, sensing someone’s presence, and looked up to find March standing in the doorway. A small blush crept onto her cheeks as she realized she’d been caught.

"You play," she said softly, her voice tinged with awe. "I had no idea."

You smiled warmly, setting the guitar down beside you. "Guess I’ve got a few surprises up my sleeve too."

March stepped closer, her playful grin lighting up her face. "You know, I didn’t take you for a musician."

You chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I don't often show it. Just felt like playing tonight."

Her smile softened, her usual bubbly demeanor giving way to something more earnest. "It’s beautiful," she said, her eyes shining. "You really know how to capture a moment, don’t you?"

You nodded, a bit of warmth spreading through you at her compliment. "It’s like photography, in a way. Capturing a feeling, a memory."

March’s eyes sparkled with understanding. "I get that," she said, her gaze flicking to the camera resting on her shoulder. "But with you, it’s more than just a moment. It’s... part of who you are."

Her words lingered in the air, and you felt something shift between you—something deeper than either of you had expected.

Before you could respond, March suddenly grinned mischievously. "Mind if I join you?"

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her sudden offer. "You play too?"

She winked. "I don't know, but I’ll give it a shot."

With that, she sat beside you, taking a seat with her camera beside her, and together, you found a new rhythm. It wasn’t just about music anymore; it was about the connection between you two, woven through each note, each laugh, and the shared understanding of a journey you were both still figuring out.

As the music played, you realized that this was more than a simple tune—it was the start of something special.

“Hey.” Fäolin’s voice was soft in the semi darkness, the thin mattress dipping as he shifted up onto an elbow behind her. “You okay?”

Arya nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Despite her response, she couldn’t stop her chest from heaving, blunted fingernails digging into her knees below the hem of her sleep shirt. Just a nightmare. That’s all it was. It hadn’t happened, so it was just a nightmare. 

She wanted to look at him. Everything screamed for her to turn and look. To make sure. To check. 

But what if it had been real? What if the bed was empty, what if what she felt was just a phantom and her fear had taken shape? 

The Recall had done that before. Taken things away, when it usually added them in. Made it look like he was gone when he was there.

Iron and shot gunpowder and burning. Weight heavy on her legs. Screaming for someone, anyone, to get Glen. 

But no one was there. No one but him.

And he…he was wheezing, blood bubbling up from his lips and his eyes so wide and betrayed and frightened. Armor shredded across his chest. Red. So much red.

“Are you cold?” Fäolin was sitting up now, scooting to sit beside her. His bare thigh against hers, warm. “You’re shivering pretty good.” Hands skimmed over her shoulders, tugged her to lean against him. 

“Just a dream.” She tried to make it come out as more than a whisper. Feign confidence and brush it off. 

He tensed up. Then Fäolin shifted, started to rise. “I’ll get Glen.”

“No!” Arya’s hand shot out and seized his wrist. ‘Don’t leave don’t leave don’t leave.’ “No, I’m– I’m okay. It wasn’t a Recall thing just…just a dream.”

He slowly sat back beside her. “Okay. If you’re sure.” 

She let his arm go and let him pull her close again, tucked against his side. He kissed her temple, rubbed her opposite arm. Wrapped himself around her as best he could side-by-side and rocked her back and forth with him. 

As the tension in Arya’s form failed to bleed away, Fäolin could not help but wonder if he should get Glenwing after all. Glen was better at this sort of thing. Glenwing was far more equipped to talk about…this, when Fäolin could only sing, unable to find flat words that felt right in his mouth that wasn’t some paltry joke. 

Any feeling around jealousy of the bond between his mate and the medic had long since faded decades upon decades ago. Arya and Glen were cut of the same cloth and bled from the same vein, their relationship nothing like that of lovers or mates. They needed each other, like a Rider needed their bonded dragon and a bonded dragon needed their Rider. Hell, he could even say he appreciated the man. He had saved Arya’s life just as many times as Arya had saved his. 

But…Glen also shared Arya’s…oddities. The ones that made Fäolin flinch when they weren’t looking, had him quietly…so very quietly…questioning if they were really made for war.

Fäolin never stayed after the nightmares. Not the Recall ones. Always left, got Glen, awkwardly tried to help Arya or the medic with basic breathing and a few handbook lifted exercises to try and calm them when the past came knocking. 

He didn’t…didn’t always get it. He wasn’t going to lie about that. Sure, he sometimes caught his own dreams wandering to what he saw through his scope. The bursts of blood and brain matter. The tightness in his chest when he could only watch from so far away as his mate and his friend grappled in close quarters.

But the…the trauma, as they called it. It didn’t stick for him the way it seemed to for them. Arya and Glen had nightmares every other week. Moments where they would fall silent for hours at a time and sit back to back, minds linked, trying to calm each other when phantom dangers reared up. They’d talk in hushed voices, heads pressed together, or Fäolin would catch glimpses of their palms flashing in the dark of their frequent camps, speaking-but-not-speaking with shapes and gestures he never managed to grasp despite their attempts to teach him. 

Fäolin…he knew it hurt them. The memories and lingering wounds of pitched battle and the fetid remains of death between their teeth. And he knew that Glen always said that the moments of accepting their vulnerability meant so much, that taking the time to feel their feelings and accept that they were not always what people would call strong, that sometimes they were sad–

A surge of unease rushed up his chest and into his throat. He directed it to the arm not holding his mate, tensed the muscles in his shoulder and 

Golden eyes, hollow and dead and both Dad and not, looking down at him as he stared up with tears and snot running down his face. The disgust and anguish at the edges of lips pressed so tight they turned pale. All those nights hearing him break down, scream, utterly broken, unable to see any light in the world. His mouth moving, the words about to tumble out, unable to be taken back–

And then Fäolin clenched his eyes shut for the briefest of moments and the specter of Cellan Teliya winked out of existence. 

Maybe it was the time they had spent out here, in the wild and savage lands of the short lived races. Maybe if he stayed long enough he would catch whatever did this to them too, this illness he heard of both whispered and shouted from the rooftops among the Varden’s veterans. Time wasn’t supposed to be a factor for any of them, but…

Fifty, sixty, a little over a handful before Arya would hit seventy years of living and breathing conflict. For elves, it shouldn’t feel so long. It wasn’t long. It was supposed to be a blink of an eye to them. 

Fäolin knew it wasn’t so. Not to Glen, not to Arya, and no, not even to him. He had only been out here a little over a decade, only five of those years spent in and out of combat and sabotage runs. Even in his nineties, five years felt not-insignificant. The conflict and pain he had seen out there, no matter how far from the front line, made it feel longer.

Arya and Glenwing had spent far, far more of their lives, damn near their entire lives, out there. Fighting. Living. It was their lives, the pines they left no longer home but a distant memory that only solidified through little glimpses of almost mockingly brief Recall of a childhood that never really had a chance to end before throwing themselves into the fray.

They, all three of them, even Glen with another two decades on his companions…they were just…they were…just…

She was kissing him.

Oh. 

Oh, okay. 

He could do that.

Fäolin let Arya’s gentle tug at his hair pull him closer, almost giggled in giddy approval, nearly relief, at her sudden boldness. He was always the one to start their little dances, and despite the voice in the back of his mind crying out in buried warning that something was off, he pushed it away. 

Loving her in this way was always easiest. And though he hated the implication that thought brought, the idea that there was any part of her he didn’t love with all he had….

The sniper slipped his hands under her sleep shirt and caressed warm skin, suppressed a low groan as she brushed against mate points on his neck and deepened that initial kiss. Ignored the rapid patter of her heart, the tiny tremors at her fingertips, and let out an interested little hum in the pause between locked lips as his mate began tugging the garment off. Felt heat stir, all thoughts of the start of the encounter forgotten as he helped her pull it over her head and tossed it into the shadows.

Arya could feel the panic scattered in her chest trying to coalesce together racing from the initial speckles and spots across her ribcage towards her sternum in white hot streaks. The snippets and fragments of the nightmare were fighting to gain a clawed handhold in her Recall, the response already primed and waiting to turn nightmare to false, fleeting memory of a death that could never, ever happen. 

If…if she told him what she had seen then he would run. Run to Glen, like he always did. But she didn’t need Glen, she needed him. To feel his heart beating and his breath on her skin and feel him in a way that she couldn’t pass off as some Recall come to life. 

She needed him here and now. And as much as it felt like a horrible white lie not not say…say why she did it…she kissed him and pulled him in for what sometimes felt like the only way he would give her comfort in the dark. 

He always took his time to tease her, pulling and pushing until she was damn near dizzy with it all, but this time. She couldn’t– didn’t –let him. His lips on her neck, mouthing at clusters of nerves and heady pheromones was all she let herself have before shifting, straddling his lap. 

Fäolin started when her fingers closed around him, a sharp grunt of surprise. This was far faster than they usually went. “Arya–”

She closed her eyes. Arya’s heart burned every second she didn't have him as close as they could get, needed him, needed that undeniable proof that he was here, he was alive, he wasn’t bleeding out in her arms or torn to pieces on the battlefield. “Pl–” 

The word died in her throat. He hated when she asked. Hated when she said ‘Please.’ So she forced it down, down, down, with the rest of her fear and pain. He said she was his warrior, bright and sharp and deadly and he…he hated seeing her hurt. Hated seeing her afraid. 

And yet she couldn’t help the tremble of question in her voice when she finally whispered, “Let me have this?” 

The crackle in her words made Fäolin still beneath her. 

“I need you. I need you, I need you, I need you.” 

A droplet of warmth splashed onto the muscles of his abdomen. Then another. And another. Rolled down the tensed flesh where he propped himself up on his elbows.

His fingers slipped in streaks of wetness when he cupped her cheek. Pulled her face down to his. Kissed her closed lids and nodded his consent. “Okay. Okay. You have me, love.”

She ran her shaking hand along his length once, twice. Then she was sinking down around him, silk and heat and all-consuming. 

Arya whimpered against his cheek when she finally sat flush to his thighs. Her fingers tangled in his wild hair and grappled him up into a hard, painful kiss, rocking in his lap. He could taste salt in the clash of teeth, her lips trembling, a tiny, almost…almost frightened nip from draconic canines. 

Arya was…scared? Afraid?

‘But she’s never afraid.’

Stars above. Kissing him, even like this, especially like this. It felt like the only time that Arya could breathe. Like he ripped the air from her lungs only to replace it with oxygen so pure it made her head spin and made the rest of the world fall away. Every time, she was sure pulling back would kill her, that breaking away would have her suffocating in moments. 

She could still see the nightmare against the backs of her eyelids. Scrunched them shut, tried to drown them, and yet…

Blood. His blood. All over her arms. 

Pushing inside his chest, trying to find the source. Hold it closed until the spell rolling off her tongue finished. Shattered bone scratching the backs of her fingers.

Fäolin’s hand skimmed up her side, held her body to his as he gently lowered himself back down to the mattress. He had to turn his head to break the kiss, Arya immediately burying her face in the crook of his shoulder with a half broken gasp. Fäolin shifted again, planted his feet firm to the cold floor. She was still clinging to him, one arm against the side of his ribs and the other curling around the back of his neck as if to anchor herself to his flesh. There wasn’t much he could do in the close quarters but he still pressed up into her, tucked her hips to his and used what leverage he had. 

Her cheek was wet where she had pushed it against his neck, lips still trembling as she kissed him soft and sweet and terrified along the column of his throat. She lingered on his pulse point, a wave of tears slipping from her skin to his as the beat of his heart pattered faster. 

“Don’t go.” The whisper was cracked and pained against the corner of his jaw. “Don’t go.” 

Fäolin turned and awkwardly pressed his lips to the side of her head, the musk of her hair, smokey and earthen and fiery, washing over his senses. She wasn’t…wasn’t talking like the Arya he knew. The one he saw in his mind’s eye, that fierce battle goddess turned vehement protector of the sapphire egg resting not two feet away. 

But the scent of her was the same. And so he loved her and held her. Arched up into her, his innate strength pushing her body up at the right angle, a choked keen tearing from tear-wet lips as he brushed against a spot deep inside her. 

“I won’t go.” A tightness in his throat he was familiar with, one he hadn’t felt in years. Decades. Always laughed it away. Because why cry when you could laugh. If you had to choose, then choose to laugh. He always did. “I promise.”

Arya tightened her hold around his neck and, with a hiss from both of them, hauled him to sit upright, her legs around his waist. Her breasts against his chest, the firmness of her muscles, the sweat sticking to him mixed with tears he still…still did not understand. She seemed to want him as close as she could get him, to feel all of him in a single moment in time. 

Her hands were all over him. Pawing, gripping, clinging, pulling. It felt as though she were trying to crawl into his skin, make herself a home inside him just as he did the same to her. 

And she was. Arya still couldn’t…couldn’t look at his face. Kissed him with eyes still squeezed shut– skin pale, ragged breathing bubbling up from his chest rather than his mouth, lips both dusky grey and cherry red at once –dragged another gasp of oxygen from him. Felt his hands grasp tight to her hips, instinctively rutted into the hold. Body moving in ripples against his lean frame, the slide of him inside sweet and full and alive. 

“Slow.” Fäolin mumbled. His fingers tightened their hold on satin flesh, kneading, forcing her to restrict her movements to mere twitches. “Slow, slow.” Rocked into her, set the excruciating pace, taking his time. 

Knew…she needed that. Time. 

It had already taken so much time to know him like this. To know that was what they had both craved. The closeness beyond what they had shared for decades, that thing he said was love that blossomed deep in her chest and made her want to curl up beside him whenever they were alone. The need to touch him when he whispered in her ear, the mellow sunlight that filled her chest when he crooned sweet words and sweeter chords from the guitar he insisted on playing for her every moment he got.

His heart. It was his heart. It was torn and she could– she could feel it fluttering under her fingers. 

Arya kissed him again. Fisted both hands in his hair to keep him from pulling away. Tried to breathe through him. Oxygen, oxygen, oxygen, so fleeting in their world, she just needed a breath and then she could wake up–

Pulse. Weaker. And weaker. It was barely there and then–

“Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t leave you.”

His pace gradually slowed. The drag of his skin against hers, pressure in places that surged through nerve and flesh.

“Look at me.” A hand, firm, warm, tangled under her loosened braid and half pulled, half pushed her away. Her arms encircling his neck, trying to close the space again. “Open your eyes, Arya.” 

Fuzzy darkness. Liquid. 

Green and gold, a beautiful hazel. Pupils slightly slitted, blown wide in the dark room. 

“I’m here.” His voice was husky, the sonorous tone warped by their dance and an unexpected tightness in his throat. “I’m staying here.”

The whimper that fell from her lips wasn’t one of relief. The Recall flickered in and out, smeared blood across his face for an instant. “You–”

“It was just a dream.” He cupped her jaw, wiped away tears with the pad of his thumb. Not as rough as his fingertips, flicking away liquid diamond from her skin. “Don’t be afraid. Don’t cry, love.”

Don’t be afraid. Just a dream. Ignore it. Just a stupid, silly dream–

The slip of the last vestiges of air from his lungs. Felt it bubble up around the hand still holding his stilled heart. His eyes dimmed in an instant. Cold. So cold.

Bright now, his eyes bright, in the dim shadows of the room. 

Panicked. 

Right now. Panicked and glinting and nervous.

The sight ricocheted deeper into her chest than any piece of shrapnel ever had, no bullet or blade had felt this painful, had stabbed shards into her lungs. Fäolin’s eyes were panicked. Scared, unsure, trying so hard to hide it. Desperate for her to tell him she was okay, she was fine, she was just…it was just a dream.

Fresh tears, no matter how hard she squeezed her eyes shut, slipped from her lids. 

She couldn’t. She couldn’t tell him what he wanted. It wouldn’t come, it stuck in her throat. 

A tiny voice screamed in her mind that it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that whenever she needed comfort from this War, every time she needed, wanted him to be the one to give it…he….

No. No, it wasn’t fair for her to put that burden on him. 

But still, she couldn’t– She needed to ground, she needed him, she needed– 

‘Help.’ 

“I’m sorry. I know it’s just– It’s just a dream, and I–” Arya swallowed hard and leaned in. Pressed her forehead to his, kissed his nose, his cheeks, tried to sear the feeling of his lips, moving instinctively against hers, in her memory then and there and chase away–

Chase away the cooling of his skin as she kissed him, tilted his head back and closed his nose as Glen had taught her, tried to breathe life back into a ruined corpse. Copper and iron on her tongue, from his lips to hers. Hearing the hiss of air escaping his chest through the shrapnel wounds, the taste of salt as tears flowed down her cheeks and onto his still face and slipped into the miniscule, imperceptible spaces between their linked flesh. The resistance of his heart, her frantic spells mending the rift far too late, as she squeezed it in a steady rhythm. 

He had said she made his heart beat. Gave his life a spark. Made air taste sweet. 

He must have lied. He wasn’t breathing. His heart was motionless in her hand. Dead and gone.

Arya’s voice broke. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I need you. Please.” His grip tightened slightly at her hip, a trembling she hadn’t noticed before. Selfish. Why did she have to be so damn selfish? She was supposed to be the strong one. “Just…make me forget. Please….”

For a few long, painful seconds, Arya was terrified he would refuse. That Fäolin would shove her away and walk out. 

She couldn’t look, couldn’t watch as she broke the rules set that first time they had lain together, the unspoken ones scattered throughout their history. She was stronger than this, stronger than begging him to just screw her to make her forget a stupid dream of him dying. Stronger than begging him to make her forget that his death was a possibility, stronger than begging to feel through her entire being in the most undeniable way that he was still alive, that he was real and breathing and loved her and wasn’t going to bleed out in her arms.

His hand returned to her cheek. Arya pressed into it with a broken whimper, apologies tumbling from shaking lips again and again as Fäolin shushed her. 

“Hey, hey, hey.” Fäolin nosed her like a cat come to comfort and whispered against her lips. “It’s okay. I can do that. I’ll make you forget.” He slipped his arms around to hold her tight to him, carefully turned and eased her back. Above her, like he usually was. “I promise. I’ll make you forget.”

The burning crept up her limbs so achingly slowly. Wrapped her legs around him again, tears still running down her temples and into her sweat-damp hair. Kept her eyes open despite the sting and did her best to etch his face above her into her true memory. 

The flush on his neck. The way it slipped under that silly attempt at what could hardly be called facial hair, barely even scruff running down to his jawline, the rough patch on his chin. The flecks around his pupils, fragments of gold leaf surrounded by rich moss and slivers of bark. 

The huff of his breath from dusty rose lips, the warm ivory of his sweat-dappled cheeks flared pink with exertion. 

Arya lifted a shaking hand, placed it on his face. Fäolin closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, her fingers running over his eyelids, his cheek. Kissed them as they dragged over his lips, captured the tip of one in the warmth of his mouth before she let her hand trail lower. Over burning mate points, the thrill of fingers lightly wrapped around his throat. No pressure, just the sensation of her rough palm and calloused fingers, pulse jumping as she held it there. 

“You’re–” Oh, that so painful sound from her. The tremor in her voice, fighting to find a way to say it…say it the way he preferred. “Tell–tell me you’ll stay.” Her hand drifted again, settled on the center of his chest. Didn’t push him away. Splayed out over his heart. “Stay with me.”

Fäolin leaned forward, pushed her leg back as he had the first time they had lain together. Sucked hard on her neck, harder than any time before, nipped the dark mark left tender and hypersensitive. The weak, tinny whine still lit his blood ablaze for her, heart aching at the pained emotion buried in the sound of pleasure. “Forever. I’ll stay forever.”

His heart was beating under her palm. Strong. Fast. Alive. So alive. Moving inside and around her. Undeniable, him, living, breathing, here, with her. 

The fear lingered. The what ifs that, if they held, could send her spiraling. 

But he was here. He was here and alive and strong and doing his best to comfort her even if he didn’t know how to beyond this fire-tinged dance and he was promising to stay. 

She was still crying. But it was relief that trickled from her eyes, seeing him clearly as the nightmare finally faded.

She did her best to push the word he had uttered out of her head with the what ifs and the fear. Forever.

‘Nothing lasts forever.’ 

Arms snaked around his neck. Pulled him down, close, a clipped moan as he went deeper than before. 

“I got you.” The strain in Fäolin’s voice was building. The kisses he pressed to her jaw shaky, cheek to hers, panting in her ear. “I got you, Ari.” He blindly grabbed for their rumpled blankets, balled them up one handed and pushed the pile under the small of her back. Lifted her just enough that gravity tilted her hips. Ground against her after each pulse into her body, let the new angle drag at her walls and listened for the change to her cries. “There you…go. I got you.” 

It felt different. It wasn’t all consuming or blinding or like the world was exploding. A sudden rush, the creeping heat flashing bright like loose gunpowder touched by flame. It fizzled out just as suddenly, and not moments after Fäolin buried his face into her neck with a guttural groan.

They lay beside each other for a time after. No sweet nothings, no giggling. Just Fäolin’s arm around her, pulling her to his body, her head propped up on the lean muscle of a shoulder. Listening to the beating of his heart through his brachial artery. Rubbing the last vestiges of tears from her cheeks as the last painful sniffs and tiny hiccups died out. His gaze fixed, unseeing, on the miniscule ripples that dotted the plaster of their room in the embassy. 

It was nearly a quarter hour before either of them spoke. 

Arya didn’t look up, one hand fisted by his ribs and the other tucked under her own chin. “…I’m sorry.” Fäolin trailed his fingers through the unraveling end of her braid splayed over her shoulder, silent. “I shouldn’t have just…I’m sorry. That was wrong and I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh, shh shh.” She was shivering again. He reached down and snagged the sheets puddled around their waists, tugging them over her shoulder. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” That crack to her words lept out again. She couldn’t help but die a little inside at his flinch. “I pushed you. You went with it but I pushed you.”

“I went with it because I wanted to, because you’re my mate and I love you.” The tone of his voice left no room to argue. Fäolin kissed the side of her head and gave her a crooked grin when her eyes flicked up to his for an instant. “You startled me a bit but…it’s not like I haven’t woken you up and asked for a romp rather insistently before. We all have our horny little dreams sometimes.”

She stilled in his arms, the already low light of eyes dimming further at his joke. He didn’t voice what they both knew. ‘Horny little dreams’ didn’t wake the dreamer with tears in their eyes and fear in their voice. 

Arya abruptly extricated herself from his embrace and sat on the edge of the bed. He heard the rustling of discarded clothing, the clink of her combat belt as she began pulling on her daily attire.

“Hey…” Fäolin sat up as well. “Arya, where–”

“I’m going to the baths.” Her voice was hollow. Quiet. 

“Do you want me to–”

She silenced him with a lingering kiss. Pressed her forehead to his. “No. Get some more rest.” In the darkness his altered eyes could see her face as clear as dawn. Her smile was broken, tips of canines hidden, eyes red-rimmed and glinting with all the things he always so, so hated to see. “You’ve earned it.” 

Her joke fell as flat as his, cracked at the edges. But he still gave her another grin and claimed her lips. Tried to give her some confidence, that fiery glow he so adored. Before anyone else could see that struggle and start the whispers that would surely follow as they did in the pines he called home. 

When he finally let her breathe she combed her fingers through his hair. “I love you, Fäolin Teliya.” It came as a sigh and a murmur, the Truth of it unequivocal in the magic of their mother tongue. Aching and apologetic and trying so desperately to show him just how much. How much she loved him. 

And how much…how sorry she was. That she was so weak that one night.

They all had their moments. Even warrior goddesses like his.

Just a moment. That’s all it was. 

“I love you, Arya.”

She picked up the sapphire egg’s carry bag from the nightstand.