Chapter 1: The First Meeting: A Goddess Before the King of Dreams
The rest of the day had unfolded in a kind of quiet contentment. After your shift in the library, you had walked together through the gardens, their shifting blossoms turning their heads as though to follow you both. The air was thick with the scent of green things and twilight rain, and you lingered at the pools where dream-fish swam in mirrored constellations, laughing softly when one leapt in a perfect arc that sent stardust rippling across the surface.
The place was still so unreal to you, and yet so perfect. You never quite understood why Calliope had not indulged in it more—why she was always restless for Olympus, never fully fond of remaining in the Dreaming. But for you, it had become home. The strange and wondrous beauty soothed you, and the quiet that stretched between its towers and forests felt like belonging. Of course you missed the Waking World and its quirks, but here you could imagine living permanently, without hesitation.
Back at the tower, Morpheus let you win the second game of chess—though when you cornered his king with a sly bishop, he arched a dark brow, and you caught the faintest twitch of his mouth.
“You are learning,” he murmured, sliding the captured piece toward you.
“Or you are letting me,” you teased, leaning back in your chair.
Morpheus’ eyes lifted, steady as moonlight, though his mouth curved just enough to betray the smallest amusement. “Perhaps. But if I were, you would never know it.”
You tilted your head, grinning. “That sounds like something a sore loser would say.”
“I do not lose.” His reply was simple, assured, yet softened by the way his fingers lingered against the piece he’d just surrendered. “I merely… allow outcomes.”
You laughed, the sound carrying into the high, shadowed chamber. “So when I win, it’s only because you’ve permitted it? That hardly counts as victory.”
“It counts,” he countered, leaning back in his chair, cloak spilling around him like liquid shadow. “Because you believe it does. And because your delight pleases me.”
That stilled you for a heartbeat—the blunt honesty, the quiet weight in his words. You ducked your gaze, suddenly more flustered than triumphant. “Well. In that case, perhaps I’ll win again tomorrow.”
His hand reached across the board, brushing the back of your fingers in a fleeting touch. “Perhaps you will.”
You shook your head, the flush still warming your cheeks. “You are impossible.”
The faintest glimmer of a smile touched his lips. “So I have been told.”
Before you could retort, a sound betrayed you—a low, unmistakable growl from your stomach. Your eyes widened, mortification prickling across your skin. “Oh no…” you muttered, pressing a hand over your middle as though that might quiet it.
Morpheus’ gaze softened, steady as a tide. He did not laugh, but the corner of his mouth curved with something perilously close. “You are hungry.”
You tried for dignity, though the heat in your face betrayed you. “Apparently.”
“Then we shall eat.” He rose in one fluid movement, cloak spilling like nightfall around him. For all his formality, his voice carried a thread of something gentler, almost indulgent.
But you caught his sleeve before he could stride toward the door. “Wait.”
He paused, looking down at you, brows faintly arched.
“Can’t we just… have some snacks here?” you asked, your tone half-pleading, half-teasing. “No formality. No procession of dishes and shadowy attendants. Just us. Something simple.”
His expression flickered, almost imperceptibly—surprise, perhaps, or that familiar moment of recalibration he often needed when confronted with your mortal preferences. “Snacks,” he repeated slowly, as though tasting an unfamiliar word.
You nodded earnestly. “Yes. Snacks. Bread. Fruit. Maybe cheese? Nothing grand, just… something to nibble while we sit here.”
A pause stretched, then his mouth curved in the faintest shadow of a smile. “Very well. If you desire simplicity, simplicity you shall have.”
A shimmer rippled across the chessboard, the carved pieces dissolving into mist. In their place appeared a low tray of food: delicate wedges of cheese marbled through with herbs, warm loaves of bread that smelled faintly of honey, jewel-like clusters of grapes, and figs that glistened as though plucked from some celestial orchard. A small dish of olives gleamed black as night, and beside it sat a carafe of wine, dark and lustrous.
You blinked at the spread, then laughed, shaking your head. “This is not simple. But… it does look really good.”
Morpheus seated himself again with unhurried grace, cloak spilling around him, as if this abundance had always been there. His eyes glinted faintly. “It is what you asked for. Bread. Fruit. Cheese.”
“Yes, but not this bread, fruit, and cheese,” you teased, reaching for a fig and holding it up between your fingers. “These look like they belong in a painting. Or an Olympian banquet.”
He inclined his head, watching you bite into it, voice low and even. “You deserve nothing less.”
The words caught you off guard, your laughter softening into something quieter as you swallowed. For all the lavishness of the spread, it was the way he said it—the weight in his tone—that left you flustered.
You cleared your throat, grinning to cover the heat rising to your face. “Well. I suppose if this is your idea of snacks, I can live with it.”
“Good,” he murmured, pouring the wine with deliberate precision, his eyes never leaving yours.
You leaned back in your chair, nibbling a slice of soft bread spread with cheese, savoring the faint sweetness of honey that lingered on your tongue. The food was richer, more perfect than anything from the Waking World, though perhaps that was because you felt his gaze on you the entire time.
Morpheus had not touched a single thing. He sat with one hand resting lightly against the table, his pale eyes following each movement you made, as though your enjoyment alone was sustenance enough for him.
“You’re staring,” you murmured around a mouthful of grape, cheeks heating.
“I am observing,” he corrected, voice low and even. “It pleases me to see you nourished.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “You always make it sound so dramatic. I’m just eating cheese.”
His gaze softened, a hint of curve at the corner of his mouth. “You diminish it. You make even the smallest act appear… luminous.”
Your heart fluttered, the warmth of wine loosening your tongue. “You really don’t eat at all? Not even when you’re curious?”
He shook his head slightly, shadows rippling across his profile. “Not in the way you do. The Dreaming sustains me. But,” his eyes lingered on you, “I find the sight of you eating… gratifying. As if I partake through you.”
You paused with a fig halfway to your lips, staring at him in disbelief before bursting out laughing. “So I’m feeding us both, then?”
“Precisely.” He said it without a flicker of irony, though the faintest shimmer of amusement tugged at his voice.
You popped the fig into your mouth and chewed slowly, savoring it all the more under his gaze. “Well, in that case, I suppose I’d better keep going. Can’t have you wasting away.”
His eyes glinted, dark and fond, as though there was something he would say but chose not to.
When you had eaten your fill, leaning back with a contented sigh, the thought slipped from your lips almost unbidden. “You know… after this, we could have a bath together.”
That earned a rare flicker of surprise, his brows lifting. For a long moment he simply looked at you, pale eyes steady and unreadable, as if weighing whether he had heard you correctly.
The silence stretched, so quiet you could hear the faint drip of water somewhere deep in the tower. You shifted under his gaze, your cheeks heating. “What? Don’t look at me like that. It was only a suggestion.”
His mouth curved, not quite into a smile—more like the shadow of one. “A bath… together?” The words were careful, almost uncertain, as though he were testing their shape.
You nodded, laughing softly at his solemn tone. “Yes. Together. It’s a mortal thing. Romantic, even. Candles, warm water, just… being close.”
He tilted his head slightly. “I have not considered bathing an act of romance.”
“That’s because you’re impossible,” you teased, nudging his arm. “But trust me. It is. You’ll see.”
For a moment he was utterly still, as though turning the idea over like a chess piece in his mind. Then, with the faintest inclination of his head, he said softly, “Very well. If it pleases you, beloved, we shall share this… bath.”
***
You finished the last of the figs with a satisfied hum, wiping your fingers on a folded cloth as his gaze followed your every movement. When you leaned back in your chair, smiling at him across the now-empty tray, he inclined his head slightly—as though the simple act of seeing you content was answer enough.
“Shall we?” you asked softly, a touch of mischief in your voice.
For the briefest moment, he only studied you, then rose in one fluid motion, cloak spilling like shadow behind him. He extended a hand. “Come.”
He led you down a quiet corridor you had not walked before, the walls lit only by the occasional sconce that burned with a soft, golden flame. When the tall doors swung open, you paused, breath catching.
The chamber beyond was vast, its high marble arches gleaming with a subtle glow. A deep pool waited at the center, its surface steaming, reflecting the flicker of dozens of candles placed at intervals around the edge. The air carried the faintest scent of lavender and rain.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Oh my god, Morpheus.”
His eyes flickered toward you, solemn. “It is what you asked for.”
“I asked for a bath. This looks like a temple,” you teased, stepping closer to the water.
He tilted his head slightly, and in an instant the chamber softened—the candelabras shrinking to a handful of votives, the high arching ceiling dimming to something more intimate, the water glowing with a softer, golden warmth.
Your heart squeezed at the gesture. “Perfect.”
Before you could say more, you felt him move behind you—silent as shadow, yet his presence pressed close enough to make your breath catch. His lips brushed your neck, cool and deliberate, a kiss that lingered like a vow.
“You call this perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low, rich with something you could not quite name. “Then it is so.”
Your robe loosened beneath his careful fingers, each knot undone with patient precision. He treated the fabric as though it were part of you, reverent in every touch, letting it slide down your arms until it pooled soundlessly at your feet.
You shivered, not from the chill but from the way his hands lingered at your shoulders, steady, possessive without being harsh. Another kiss followed, just beneath your ear, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your nape.
“It’s perfect,” you whispered, voice catching, “because I get to share it with you.”
You swallowed, heart hammering as the words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I love you.”
The silence that followed was deep, almost startling in its weight. He did not move, did not even draw breath for a long moment, his lips still hovering near your skin. Slowly, he turned you to face him, his hands steady at your shoulders, and the pale fire of his gaze fixed wholly upon you.
His thumb brushed the edge of your collarbone, softer than a sigh. Then, after a long, weighted silence, his voice came—low, unsteady in a way you had never heard from him before.
“I love you too.”
The words were deliberate, shaped with care, as though they were something sacred he had kept hidden for centuries.
Your breath caught, tears pricking at your eyes as you whispered, “Say it again.”
He leaned closer, forehead almost resting against yours. “I love you,” he repeated, quieter still, but heavier, as though each syllable was a vow.
You kissed him then, soft at first, your lips trembling against his. He returned it with a slow intensity that drew the air from your lungs, his hands sliding down your arms until he pulled you closer, water lapping gently around you both.
When at last you drew back for breath, you reached for the hem of his black shirt, soaked dark with steam. Your fingers brushed against the cool skin beneath as you tugged it upward. “Let me,” you murmured.
He didn’t resist—he never would—but his eyes searched yours, dark and fathomless, as though he wanted to be certain of your intent. Then, with a small nod, he lifted his arms to help you, letting you peel the clinging fabric over his head.
The candlelight played across him—pale skin traced with shadows, the lean lines of him made almost otherworldly in the golden glow. He was a king, a dream, a god—and yet, here in the steam with you, he was simply yours.
***
After you were undressed completely, you stepped carefully into the tub, the hot water rising around your skin in a soft embrace. Steam curled upward, carrying the faint scent of lavender, and candlelight danced in trembling halos across the marble walls.
You glanced back once as Morpheus shed his own garments, each movement precise, unhurried. There was no vanity in him, only inevitability—as though the act of undressing was not exposure, but a kind of ritual.
When he joined you, the water shifted with his weight, spilling slightly over the edge in a gentle wave. The tub was wide enough to hold you both with ease, yet the steam and the curve of his body seemed to draw the world smaller, more intimate.
He settled into the water, the surface rippling as he shifted closer. His voice came low, velvet-dark, a faint curl of wryness in it. “So this is what you were after.”
You turned your head slightly, meeting his pale gaze through the steam. “Yes. Perfect.”
At his quiet beckon you shifted, letting him guide you to sit between his long legs. When you leaned back, your spine met the solid plane of his chest, the water lapping softly around you both. His arms came around you, steady and encompassing, and his lips pressed a trail of feather-light kisses along your damp temple, down to the corner of your jaw.
You sighed, relaxing fully into him, feeling his hands drift lazily over your arms, your waist, as though the act of touching you was as natural as breathing. “See?” you murmured, tilting your head against his shoulder. “Don’t you think this is nice?”
For a long moment he said nothing, only letting his thumb trace idle circles at your hip beneath the water. Then he exhaled softly, and his voice brushed your ear in a murmur. “I find that I do.”
You smiled, heart thrumming. “Told you.”
For a long while you only rested there, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, the lap of water against porcelain. His hands moved in unhurried paths—over your waist, across your arms, back up to cradle your ribs. Every touch was a reminder: you were held, you were seen, you were his.
You tilted your head back, brushing your cheek against the line of his jaw. His lips were waiting there, cool and deliberate as they caught the edge of your smile. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, his arms tightening until you were wrapped wholly in him.
Your fingers slid down to cover his hands where they rested at your middle. You guided them lower, a silent answer to the question his body was already asking.
His fingers hesitated for only a heartbeat against your lower belly before sliding down, parting the slick heat where your thighs met. The touch wasn't invasive, not yet. It was exploration. A slow, deliberate mapping of sensitivity.
"Here?" His murmur vibrated against the back of your neck, cool breath ghosting over your damp skin despite the steam. His long index finger traced the outer folds with infinite care, the pad calloused yet impossibly soft, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
You nodded, unable to speak, pressing back harder against him. His solidity anchored you as the sensation threatened to unravel you. "Mhm." The sound was barely a breath.
His touch deepened fractionally, a gentle, circling pressure. Not inside, but there. Where the nerves sang. He knew. Of course he knew. A low hum resonated in his chest, neither approval nor surprise, simply acknowledgment. His other arm remained wrapped securely around your ribs, holding you close, his palm warm and broad against your side.
"You tremble." Another murmur, observation laced with that dark velvet tone. His finger didn't stop its relentless, teasing circles. The water lapped, the distant music seemed to pulse in time with your heartbeat.
"I can't help it," you managed, tilting your head to press your temple against his jaw. "It feels...intense."
"Good intense?" The question held a trace of genuine curiosity beneath the calm. His thumb joined the dance, brushing a different spot, higher, firmer.
A sharp gasp ripped from your throat. Your hips jerked forward, seeking more of that pressure. "Gods, Morpheus... Yes." The admission felt raw, stripped bare. You reached back, fingers tangling in the damp, dark strands of hair at his nape, grounding yourself as much as pulling him closer. "Don't stop."
He didn't. His rhythm became more focused, unerringly finding the exact point that made your vision blur and your breath catch in shallow, ragged bursts. He applied pressure then eased, circled then tapped lightly, building the sensation in waves that crashed higher and hotter each time. The steam thickened, the scent of jasmine heady and intoxicating. The mosaics on the walls seemed to swirl with the mist, colors bleeding and reforming.
His lips found the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly. Not a bite, just the barest hint of possession, a counterpoint to the relentless friction below. The dual sensation – the sharp, cool point of contact above, the building inferno below – was overwhelming. Your back bowed slightly, pushing your chest forward even as your hips rolled against his hand.
"That’s it," he breathed against your damp skin, a command and an encouragement wrapped together. His finger pressed harder, the circling motion tightening, becoming almost vibratory. Your muscles tightened like coiled springs beneath your skin, every nerve ending screaming towards a single, inevitable point. Pleasure coiled low in your belly, hot and sharp, radiating outwards in electric waves.
The tension built to an unbearable peak, a silent scream gathering in your chest. You were suspended on the razor's edge, breath trapped, every muscle locked. His relentless touch held you there, teetering, for an agonizing, exquisite moment.
Then, the wave broke. It wasn't a gentle release; it was a shattering. Your entire body convulsed against him, a silent cry escaping as air rushed back into your lungs. Your spine arched violently, lifting your torso partially out of the water, muscles straining taut as wire. Steam rushed past your face, thick and cloying.
“Oh god,” you gasped, collapsing back against his chest, trembling uncontrollably. Every nerve still screamed, aftershocks rolling through you like distant thunder. Water sloshed over the tub's edge, a soft counterpoint to your ragged breathing.
Morpheus held you steady, his arms solid anchors in the liquid haze. His hand, the one that had orchestrated your undoing, lay still now against your lower belly, palm warm and heavy. The other traced slow circles on your shoulder. His breath was cool against your temple, a stark contrast to the heat still pooling under your skin.
“Breathe,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your back. “Slowly.”
You tried, sucking in air that tasted of jasmine and salt-skin. The mosaics on the walls swirled lazily through the steam, blues and golds bleeding into greens. Your heartbeat hammered against your ribs, loud in the quiet that followed the storm. His stillness was profound, an ancient calm settling over you both. His fingers on your shoulder moved up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back so your gaze met his.
His star-filled eyes held yours, intense and unblinking. You saw no triumph there, only a deep, unsettling focus. Like you were a riddle he hadn’t finished solving. A droplet of water traced a path from his temple down the sharp line of his cheekbone. You wanted to catch it with your thumb.
“Intense,” you finally managed, voice husky and wrecked. “Understatement of the eon.”
A faint smile touched Morpheus’s lips, fleeting and enigmatic as a dream fragment. He didn’t speak, just held your gaze, his star-filled eyes absorbing the flush on your skin, the rapid flutter of your pulse at your throat. His thumb brushed your jawline, cool and deliberate.
***
You stayed there with him like this for a while—your back pressed to the firm plane of him, your head settling in the hollow of his shoulder as though it had always belonged. His arms enclosed you with a slow, inevitable gravity: one long hand splayed over your stomach, the other drawing languid circles along your forearm beneath the warm hush of the water. His breathing kept its even tide; yours fluttered against it, quick and bright as a trapped bird.
The silence between you was not empty. It was a thing that held sound—the soft lap of the bath, the candle-wick’s small clarion, the inhalation of a world that had shrunk to the two of you. You tilted your face and the curve of your cheek brushed the line of his jaw.
“You’re staring again,” you breathed, a half-smile in the dark.
He answered without ceremony, his mouth a shadow at the crown of your head. “I am observing,” he said, voice low and careful. “You are…extraordinary.” Each word was chosen as one might choose a talisman—small, precise, luminous.
Your fingers found his forearm and clutched like a mooring. “I read today,” you said, feeling suddenly small and large at once. “Books—about union. Practical things.” You could feel him listening, that attention like a tide drawing near.
His hand at your belly shifted, an almost-imperceptible tightening. He made no more than a sound—an encouragement, not intrusive.
“I’ve been thinking,” you went on. “I want us to set a date.”
For a moment the steam, the candlelight, the hush between breaths—these were all the world. His breath ghosted your temple. “A date—for what, beloved?” he asked, and the question was gentle as linen.
“For us,” you said, the word small and fierce. “For…for everything I’ve been fumbling toward. I want a day that is only ours. And at the end of it—I want to go further. Properly.”
You turned your head just enough to meet him; his gaze was steady, the pale of it like a shore meeting the sea. For a heartbeat you read nothing but attention there—no impatience, no performance—only an absolute, patient waiting.
“A day that is only ours,” he repeated, tasting the shape of the words as if they were new and terrible and lovely. His voice was low, the consonants worn smooth by long use. “And by ‘properly’—do you mean… me within you?”
You couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped you, a sound threaded with nerves and something like triumph. “Yes,” you said, the word bright and honest. “Like — sex. All the way. I’ve never felt ready with anyone. Not because I thought they would hurt me, but because I feared I might hurt them. I’d never been in love before—until now. Now it feels right, and I don’t want to wait much longer.”
He held you as if measuring the weight of that confession. “You understand the nature of what you ask,” he said quietly. “The first time may bring pain. The body must learn a new shape; the world may mark it with blood and ache. I would not cloak that from you.”
A hot, small rush of worry rose in your throat. “I know it might hurt,” you admitted, before letting out a shy, embarrassed laugh. “I even… looked it up. The biological part, just to… you know… forget it.” You buried your face briefly against his shoulder before forcing yourself to ask the question that had been gnawing. “Have you ever… done this before?”
His brows drew together faintly, as though you had asked something impossibly strange. “Sex?” he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar in his mouth.
You laughed despite your nerves. “No, I know you’ve had sex before. You had a son, so—clearly. That’s not what I mean. I mean… have you ever been with someone who never had? Like me. Been someone’s first?”
For once, the great Dream of the Endless seemed almost flustered, his gaze breaking from yours before returning with the weight of centuries. “Yes,” he said at last, slowly, as if opening an old, sealed door. “About ten thousand years ago.”
You turned fully to face him, water spilling over the rim in your sudden movement, splashing across stone. The sound startled the candles into flicker, but his gaze never wavered—steady, pale, fathomless.
“Ten thousand years…” you whispered, your voice catching. “That seems so long ago.”
For a heartbeat you searched his face, disbelief and awe tangling in your chest. “And no one since?”
His answer came without hesitation, quiet as a vow. “No.”
The single word fell between you like a stone in still water, rippling through the silence until all you could hear was the thrum of your own heart.
He drew you nearer, his hands sure and warm against your cheek now. “But, if this is what you wish,” he said, his voice low and reverent, “I would be honoured to be the one.”
His gaze held yours, steady and unflinching. “I will be gentle. I will see that you are comfortable, that fear has no place between us. That is my promise.”
Then, soft and plain as a vow, he said, “But, you must never do this because you think you owe me anything. I do not require it. I am content with what you already give me—your time, your trust, your presence. If you choose to keep this for another hour, another year, another eon, I will not resent you. Your choice is the only law I will answer to.”
The truth of it settled over you like a cloak, heavy and comforting all at once. You closed your fingers over his, small and certain. “Thank you,” you whispered, and the words felt larger than breath.
You lifted your face and kissed him—slow, certain, water lapping against the stone as the world seemed to pause around you. When you drew back, your lips still brushing his, you whispered: “Then let it be this Sunday. I am free from the library. We will spend the day together, and when night comes… we will be one.”
A shadow of something like awe flickered across his face, though his voice remained a measured tide. “Sunday, then. As you desire. And should your heart alter, even in the final moment, there will be no reproach.”
You shook your head, breath catching. “I will not change my mind. But…” Your voice faltered, a tremor of nerves and wonder. “There is still one question on my mind.”
His eyes searched yours, fathomless and intent, as though he would strip away hesitation itself if it troubled you. “Then ask it, beloved,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of your cheek. “What question weighs upon you?”
“Well…” You drew a careful breath, the words fragile on your tongue. “This is how babies are made. And I am not ready for that.”
A stillness came over him, like the pause before a storm. His gaze, pale and fathomless, fixed upon you. “So—you would not have us fashion life from our joining?” The words were not reproach, but wonder, as if he were weighing the shape of what you feared.
You shook your head, your voice softer. “Maybe one day. But not now. We have only just started dating, and I cannot think of such a future yet.”
He inclined his head slowly, as though sealing your words into memory. “Then it will not be forced upon you.” His hand, long and cool, cupped your cheek, the touch grounding you.
You arched a brow at him, sceptical and amused despite the heat in your chest. “Be more specific. How will we avoid it?”
His expression did not waver, his voice as deliberate as stone laid in place. “I will withdraw in time,” he said. “I will keep from planting consequence in you until such a time as you desire it. If you never desire it, then so it shall be. Your body will bear no fate but the one you choose.”
Relief and a deep, aching tenderness welled through you, and you leaned in to kiss him again—slow, certain, your lips lingering on his as though to seal his vow into flesh. “Thank you,” you whispered against his mouth, the words trembling with more weight than their smallness could hold.
The bathwater was cooling quickly, the steam thinning, candles hissing faintly where droplets struck their wax. You drew back with a faint shiver, ripples spreading across the surface between you. “The water’s getting cold,” you murmured, your voice soft in the hush.
He studied you for a long, quiet moment, his eyes pale and fathomless in the wavering light. “Then perhaps we should retreat,” he said at last, his tone smooth as nightfall. A pause, then, with the smallest tilt of his head: “Unless you would prefer I warm it again.”
You shook your head, a weary smile tugging at your lips. “No. Let’s go to bed. It’s been… a day.”
His gaze softened, the severity in his face easing into something almost tender. He rose in a fluid motion, water sluicing from him like dark silk, and extended a hand toward you. “As you wish,” he murmured, the simple words carrying the weight of a vow.
You rose, water streaming down your skin in rivulets, and reached for the robe that now hung neatly on a carved stand beside the bath—placed there, you were certain, by no hand but his will. It was warm as though it had been waiting all along, soft and weighty, wrapping around you like a cocoon. The fabric smelled faintly of cedar and starlight, a comfort that chased away the lingering chill of the cooling water.
When you turned, cinching it closed at your waist, he was already there. Dry. Composed. His dark hair fell smooth and unruffled over his brow, no trace of dampness left. He wore nothing more elaborate than black pajama trousers and a simple black shirt, and yet the starkness of it made him look all the more striking—otherworldly and infuriatingly unbothered, as though he had not just stepped dripping from the same bath as you.
You couldn’t help it; you rolled your eyes, a laugh catching in your throat. “Unfair,” you muttered, half to yourself, shaking your head at him.
“Is it?” he teased you—a feather-light rasp at the corner of your mouth—then closed the gap with a deliberate kiss that tasted faintly of candlewax and rain. When you broke apart, breathless, he folded his hands behind his back as if arranging the world to suit a question.
“There is another matter that requires discussion,” he said, voice slipping back into that quiet authority you’d learned to heed. “Your birthday is next week. I am yours to command. What do you wish for?”
You blinked, the absurdity of the offer making you grin. “You are mine to command?” you echoed, testing it as if the notion might unspin.