A moment later, I felt his hand lift. Hover. Hesitate. Fingers ghosting the air near my hair like he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch. Then—He did. His fingers slid into my hair with reverent care, brushing damp strands away from my face. The touch was light, almost unsure, as though I might vanish if he pressed too hard. As though I were something precious instead of a walking disaster wrapped in borrowed fate and dragon fire.
He whispered something. So soft it barely reached me. Something about me being… too good. Too kind. Too pretty. Ridiculous. Sweet nonsense. I smiled faintly, somewhere between awareness and dreams. The fire crackled. Embers drifted upward like tiny stars returning to the sky. Above us, the clouds thinned, revealing moonlight—pale and watchful, bathing the clearing in silver.
