"You do that," she grumbled, almost sounding content. "Along with attempted murder.".
"Noted," I told her, smiling into her hair, breathing in a scent that belonged to her alone a softly sweet blend of lavender, fury, and barely-contained violence. It was the perfect fit.
For a long, precarious moment, we didn't stir. The moonlight struggled around us, as if reluctant to shatter our fragile ceasefire. I idly wondered how many relationships started this way: shattered china, teleportation mishaps, and near-miss murders.
"Can we have an agreement," I whispered, drawing her in, "that from here on out, romantic moves won't include possibly lethal objects?"
Enara leaned back, brows raised to me in one of those narrowed glances of pretended outrage. "Where's the romance in that?"
"Ah, my error. Clearly, nothing is more romantic than head trauma."
