Chapter 10: The Gift and the Ride
Morning came slow and golden, the canvas walls of the tent glowing like parchment held to a flame. Lauren surfaced from sleep in pieces—first the warmth, then the weight of an arm draped across her waist, then the steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath her cheek.
She was still wearing her thigh-highs.
The realization made her smile against Liam's chest. Somewhere in the tangle of furs and discarded clothing, she'd lost everything else, but those socks had survived. She lifted her head just enough to look at him—the sharp line of his jaw softened in sleep, his lips slightly parted, dark lashes fanned against his cheeks. He looked younger like this. Less like the confident boy who'd swept her off her feet at the coffee shop, and more like someone she could wake up next to a thousand times.
The thought made her heart stutter.
She pressed a gentle kiss to his sternum, right over the faint tattoo of a compass rose she'd discovered last night. His skin tasted of salt and sleep, and she let her lips linger, feeling the vibration of his soft exhale.
"Mm." His arm tightened around her, pulling her closer. "You're still here."
"Where else would I be?" She propped herself up on her elbow, looking down at him. His eyes were still closed, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Dunno." He stretched, a full-body movement that made the furs rustle and his abdominal muscles ripple beneath her gaze. "Thought I might have dreamed you."
"Flattering." She traced a finger along his collarbone. "But I'm very real."
"Prove it." He finally opened his eyes, those warm hazel depths finding hers. "Kiss me."
She did. It was soft at first—a gentle press of lips that tasted of morning breath and something sweet. But then his hand tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepened. She felt his tongue trace her lower lip, and she opened for him willingly, a small moan escaping her throat.
"God," he murmured against her mouth. "Even your morning breath is perfect."
She laughed, pulling back just enough to swat his chest. "You're disgusting."
"You love it."
She paused at that. The words hung between them, heavy with implication. Love. They'd known each other for—what? A week? Less? And yet, lying here with the morning light painting his skin in shades of gold, she couldn't deny that something had shifted inside her. Something that felt terrifyingly close to the word he'd just thrown out so casually.
"I—" She started, then stopped.
He didn't push. He just stroked her hair, his thumb brushing the pink-dyed strands away from her face. "You don't have to say anything. I was just—" He shrugged, a boyish gesture that made her chest ache. "It's a good look on you. The being here. With me."
"It is," she agreed softly. "A very good look."
The tent smelled of last night—candle wax and spiced wine, the lingering trace of their bodies tangled together. A half-empty tankard of cider sat on the wooden table beside a stack of dog-eared fantasy novels. Lauren's eyes caught on the cover of The Lies of Locke Lamora, and she smiled.
"See something you like?" Liam's voice was teasing.
"I was just thinking—" She bit her lip. "You read my books."
"I read your books. The ones you left on the table." He reached over her to pick up the tattered paperback, thumbing through the pages. "Locke Lamora's a clever bastard. I can see why you like him."
"Lies of Locke Lamora," she corrected automatically, then felt heat rise to her cheeks. "Sorry. I do that. Correct people."
"I noticed." He grinned, unbothered. "It's cute. You get this little furrow between your brows. Like you're physically in pain if someone mispronounces a character's name."
"I cannot believe you've already cataloged my quirks."
"Honey, I've been cataloging since you ordered that latte at the coffee shop and asked the barista if they had any oat milk alternatives that wouldn't curdle." His grin widened. "You were so serious about it. Like it was a matter of national security."
She buried her face in his chest, groaning. "I'm never leaving this tent."
"That's fine with me." His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close. "I could stay here forever."
For a while, they lay in comfortable silence. The sounds of the faire were beginning to stir outside—vendors setting up their stalls, the clang of metal from the blacksmith's tent, the distant call of a merchant hawking his wares. Through the canvas, she could hear the murmur of early-morning patrons, already wandering the grounds.
Lauren's stomach growled.
Liam laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Hungry?"
"Apparently." She sat up, clutching the fur blanket to her chest. The morning air was cool, raising goosebumps along her bare arms. "Do you think they have breakfast here?"
"Festival food, sure. Meat pies, roasted nuts, maybe some kind of medieval sausage." He sat up beside her, stretching his arms overhead. "You know, the usual."
"I want to try the sausage." She said it without thinking, then immediately turned crimson as his eyebrows shot up. "I meant—at the festival. As food."
"Sure you did." He was grinning like the cat who'd gotten the cream. "Come on. Let's get dressed and find you some sausage. The non-innuendo kind."
They dressed in fits and starts, stealing kisses between layers of clothing. Liam pulled on his jeans and a fresh tunic, while Lauren wrestled with the buttons of her blouse, her fingers fumbling. He came up behind her, brushing her hands aside.
"Let me."
His fingers worked the buttons with surprising dexterity, drawing them tight with a practiced tug. She felt the fabric cinch around her ribs, lifting her breasts in a way that made her feel both exposed and powerful.
"There." He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder before slipping the fabric into place. "A knight needs her armor."
She turned to face him, a retort on her lips, but the words died when she saw his expression. He was looking at her with an intensity that made her breath catch—like she was something precious, something worth protecting.
"What?" She asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Nothing." He shook his head, a soft smile playing at his lips. "Just—you're gorgeous. That's all."
She ducked her head, but she was smiling. "Flatterer."
"Only when it's true."
She finished dressing, pulling on her skirt and smoothing it over her hips. Then she reached for the longsword propped against the table—the one her father had given her, the blade that had hung on her bedroom wall for years. Strapping it across her back felt like putting on a second skin.
Liam watched her, his expression unreadable. "You really know how to use that thing?"
"I took fencing in high school." She adjusted the strap across her chest. "And my dad taught me a few basics. Enough to not embarrass myself."
"Impressive." He held out his hand. "Ready?"
She took it, letting him pull her close. "Ready."
They stepped out of the tent together into the morning light. The faire was coming alive around them—colorful banners snapping in the breeze, the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread wafting from the food stalls. Vendors called out their wares, jugglers practiced their routines, and somewhere nearby, a minstrel was tuning a lute.
Lauren felt a lightness in her chest she hadn't felt in years. Maybe ever.
They wandered the stalls, hand in hand. Liam bought them both meat pies from a vendor who insisted on calling them "milord" and "milady," and they ate them standing up, grease dripping down their chins. He wiped a smear of pastry from her lip with his thumb, his touch gentle.
"You've got—" He gestured vaguely at her face.
"I got it?" She licked her lip, tasting salt and butter.
"Yeah." His eyes darkened. "You got it."
They walked on. A vendor was selling hand-forged jewelry—delicate silver filigree and hammered copper, set with chips of turquoise and garnet. Lauren paused, her eyes caught on a silver pendant shaped like a crescent moon, a single brilliant garnet cradled in its curve.
"Pretty," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
"Like it?" The vendor, a woman with braided gray hair and kind eyes, held it up. "Handmade. Symbolizes new beginnings."
Lauren hesitated. It was lovely, but she didn't have the money for trinkets. Her student budget was tight enough as it was.
"Not today, thank you—"
"I'll take it." Liam's voice cut through, and before Lauren could protest, he was handing the vendor a few crumpled bills.
"Liam, you don't have to—"
"I want to." He took the pendant from the vendor, turning it over in his palm. The silver gleamed in the morning light. "Turn around."
She obeyed, her heart hammering. His fingers brushed the nape of her neck as he clasped the necklace, and she felt the cool weight of the pendant settle against her collarbone. When she turned back, he was watching her with those warm hazel eyes.
"It suits you," he said simply.
She touched the pendant, her throat tight. "Thank you."
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned back to the vendor's stall, his gaze scanning the display. His fingers brushed over a delicate silver anklet, a chain of interlocking links with a tiny charm shaped like an arrowhead.
"Could I see that one?" He asked, his voice softer than she'd ever heard it.
The vendor handed it over, and Liam examined it briefly before nodding. "And this." He pointed to a bracelet—a simple silver cuff, unadorned but elegant. "I'll take both."
"Liam—" Her protest was weak, barely a whisper.
"Hush." He handed the money to the vendor, pocketing the bracelet. Then he knelt—actually knelt—before her in the middle of the faire, and lifted her skirt just enough to reveal the top of her thigh-high. His fingers were gentle as he unbuckled the clasp of the anklet, and even more gentle as he wrapped it around her ankle, the silver cool against her skin.
"There." He looked up at her, his grin boyish and a little smug. "Now you've got something to remember me by."
She was speechless. The anklet was hidden beneath her thigh-high, a secret weight against her skin. She would feel it every time she walked, every time she moved. A constant reminder of him.
"Stand up," she managed, her voice shaky.
He did, and she pulled him into a kiss—deep and desperate and full of all the words she couldn't say. He stumbled back, catching his balance, his hands finding her hips as she pressed into him. Around them, the faire continued on, oblivious to the tiny world they'd created between them.
When she finally pulled away, they were both breathing hard. "I can't believe you did that."
"Which part?" He was grinning, a little dazed. "The pendant, the anklet, or the bracelet I bought for myself?"
She laughed, the sound bright and unexpected. "All of it."
"It's just stuff, Lauren." He cupped her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. "You're worth more than anything they're selling here."
The words hit her like a wave, crashing over her chest and leaving her breathless. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. There was only the weight of the pendant against her collarbone, the tickle of the anklet against her ankle, and the steady warmth of his hands on her face.
"Come on," he said, releasing her gently. "Let's walk some more."
They wandered past the jousting arena, where knights in gleaming armor were preparing for a demonstration. Liam's arm found its way around her shoulders, a casual intimacy that made her feel safe. They passed a group of jugglers, and Lauren gasped as one tossed a flaming torch into the air.
"Show-offs," Liam muttered, but he was smiling.
They stopped at a stall selling honey mead, and Liam bought them each a small cup. The liquid was sweet and warm, settling in her stomach like liquid sunshine. She sipped it slowly, savoring the taste.
"This is nice," she said, watching the crowd flow around them.
"It is." He bumped her shoulder with his. "I could get used to this."
The words hung in the air, weighted with possibility. She wanted to ask what he meant—wanted to know if this was just a weekend fling to him, or something more. But she couldn't bring herself to break the spell.
Instead, she leaned into him, her head resting against his shoulder. "Me too."
They finished their mead and returned the cups. The sun was climbing higher now, warming the morning air. Lauren could feel the day stretching out before them like a promise.
"So," Liam said, his voice casual. "I was thinking. After the faire ends today—do you want to go for a ride?"
Her heart skipped. "On your bike?"
"Yeah." His hand found hers, intertwining their fingers. "There's a spot I know. Overlooks the valley. Best sunset in the county."
She thought about it. The wind in her hair, her arms wrapped around him, the roar of the engine beneath them. It should have terrified her. Instead, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
"I'd love that."
His grin was blinding. "Then it's a date."
The word sent a thrill through her chest. Date. Not just a hookup. Not just a chance encounter. A date.
They walked on, hand in hand, the morning light painting the world in shades of gold. The faire was alive around them—the smells, the sounds, the vibrant chaos of it all—but Lauren couldn't focus on any of it. All she could feel was the warmth of his hand in hers, the weight of the pendant against her chest, and the quiet certainty that something had shifted between them. Something real. Something she wasn't ready to name yet.
As they passed a tent selling leather goods, Liam paused, tugging her to a stop. "Wait here a sec."
He ducked inside, emerging a moment later with a wide leather cuff in his hands. It was dark brown, embossed with a pattern of interlocking Celtic knots. Before she could ask, he was strapping it around his own wrist, opposite the slim silver bracelet he'd bought earlier.
"Now we match," he said, holding out his arm to show her.
She looked at her own wrist—bare, then at the anklet hidden beneath her thigh-high, then at the pendant resting against her collarbone. A necklace. An anklet. A bracelet. All from him. All a part of her now.
"Liam." Her voice broke slightly on his name. "I—"
"I know." He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Me too."
The day continued around them, but Lauren felt like she was floating. They stopped for lunch at a stall selling roasted turkey legs, and Liam ate his with theatrical gusto, making her laugh until her sides hurt. They watched a falconer demonstrate with a majestic peregrine, its wingspan casting a shadow over the crowd. They browsed a stall selling hand-bound journals, and Lauren spent ten minutes flipping through the empty pages, inhaling the scent of fresh paper and leather.
"Get it," Liam said.
"It's too expensive."
"Get it anyway." He was already reaching for his wallet.
"Liam, you've already—"
"I want to." He pressed the journal into her hands. "You can write your stories in it. Your fantasies. Whatever makes you happy."
She hugged the book to her chest, overwhelmed by the gesture. "Thank you."
He just shrugged, that easy grin on his face. "Come on. Let's find some shade."
They settled on a patch of grass near the edge of the faire, away from the crowds. Lauren sat cross-legged, the journal balanced on her knees, and Liam lay beside her, his head on his arm. The sun was warm on her face, the grass soft beneath her.
"What do you write about?" He asked, his eyes half-closed.
"I don't know." She ran her fingers over the blank page. "I used to write stories when I was younger. Fairy tales, mostly. Princesses and knights and dragons."
"And now?"
"Now?" She thought about it. "I guess I don't write much anymore. Too much studying, not enough imagination."
"That's a shame." He reached out, tracing the spine of the journal with one finger. "You have a lot of imagination, Lauren. I can see it in your eyes."
She smiled, ducking her head. "You're just saying that."
"Maybe." He turned onto his back, looking up at the sky. "Or maybe I see more in you than you see in yourself."
The words settled over her like a blanket, warm and comforting. She lay down beside him, their shoulders touching, and together they watched the clouds drift across the blue expanse.
"I used to imagine a lot," she said quietly. "When I was younger. I'd pretend I was a knight, protecting my castle. Or a sorceress, wielding ancient magic."
"And now?"
"Now I'm just a girl with a degree in medieval history and a sword hanging on her wall."
He laughed, the sound low and warm. "That's not just anything. That's pretty fucking cool."
"Coming from the guy who rides a Ducati, I'll take that as a compliment."
They lay there for a while longer, until the sounds of the faire pulled them back. The afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink.
"We should probably head back," Liam said, reluctant. "The motorcycle's at the edge of the grounds."
Lauren sat up, her heart beginning to race. She thought about the ride ahead—the wind, the speed, the warmth of his body against hers. And then she thought about what came after. The sunset. The valley. The promise of more time together.
"Okay," she said, her voice steady. "Let's go."
They packed up their things, her new journal tucked safely into her satchel. Liam took her hand, leading her through the thinning crowds toward the exit. The faire was winding down, vendors packing up their stalls, the last performers taking their bows.
As they reached the edge of the grounds, Lauren saw it—a sleek black Ducati, gleaming in the evening light. It was parked beside a wooden fence, looking every bit the beast she'd imagined.
"Ready?" Liam asked, handing her a helmet.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. "Ready."
He swung onto the bike, and she climbed on behind him, her arms wrapping around his waist. The engine roared to life, vibrating beneath her thighs. She felt the heat of him through his tunic, the solid strength of his body against hers.
"Hold on tight," he called over his shoulder.
She tightened her grip, pressing her cheek against his back. The pendant swung against her chest, a gentle reminder of the day—of him.
The bike surged forward, and the world blurred around them.