"Eve, come on!" The day was crystal bright, strung pendants fluttering lightly in the chilled breeze that lifted her hair. She stood before the main fountain, gazing up at the copper-green knight with his sword aloft, pointing towards the far-off morrow where Bezella existed no more. The water flecked her front, chilling her clothing and neck.

"Eve!" Espella stood up to her calves in the rippling water, her dress bunched up in one hand as she splashed along with a small hoard of children. Splashing and shouting, the two things they—in theory, at least—weren't allowed to do at a public water resource. She found her hands raised against the extra water from their endless churning.

"Espella, get down from there," she ordered as sternly as she could while dodging water. She had to raise her voice to be heard over the screaming of the delighted kids. "You're far too old to be bouncing about in such a manner!" she added, trying to be the proper role model.

"But Eve, 'tis fun!" Espella laughed, dancing around and kicking up water along with her heels. "Come on, lighten up! Join us!"

"Aye, join us, join us!" the children cried, hands cupped as they flung water in the air, droplets catching the sun with a brilliant sparkle.

"Absolutely not!" She backed away, but the water seemed to somehow follow her. She couldn't get far enough to be out of the line of fire, splashes of fat droplets interspersed with the fine mist that came naturally from the fountain. "Ugh!" She wiped at her face in vain, her hands just as wet as her cheeks.

"Oh, come along, Miss Eve." She squeaked in alarm as Barnham came up silently behind her, his hands clapping down on her shoulders. "It's just a bit of fun."

"Right!" Espella held out her hands and he took them, leaping over the short wall of the fountain in one movement and splashing everyone within a three foot radius. She shook back her wet curls, huffing as she pushed them out of her eyes.

"Zacharias!" He only laughed, booming and hearty as it joined with Espella's giggles and the children's shrieks.

"Eve," Espella shook her head fondly before squealing as the redhead pushed her under the fountain's direct spray, both hands over her hair as she became thoroughly wet.

"Your turn!" he called jovially, looking over his shoulder at her before holding out his hand. "'Tis fun, trust me!" he added, when she stayed still.

"I'm not letting you do that!" she protested, staring at the nearly translucent white sheen of Espella's dress. Did the girl have no shame? No one else seemed to notice.

"Miss Eve." He stepped one foot onto the stone ledge, reaching over to grab her wrist. She froze, the slick wetness of his palm warm against her frantic pulse, her eyes caught by his. "What's the matter?" His voice held the same soft, assuaging quality it had when he'd spoken to her in the bakery.

"I—I—" The right corner of his mouth turned up in a strange, nearly triumphant smirk.

"You look a little flustered." She tried to pull away, but a firm tug had her taking a few shaky steps in his direction.

"D-don't—" She found herself unable to look away, mind stalling mid-thought at the water catching on his eyelashes, a bead of it running from his damp hair to meet the rise of the scar on his brow.

"Is there something you require?" She shook her head dumbly, lips parting as she yanked at her wrist. Why did that question send her heart into her throat? What's happening to me?

"Let go…" Turning her head, she closed her eyes and yanked harder. She needed to get away, to run to the forest, to the Court, to the lake; she needed a place of quiet to think, to understand what was going on.

"Miss Eve?" he asked again, his fingers iron bands. She shook her head harder, leaning with the effort of separating them. The water continued to pour over her until she was certain she was drowning in it, choked by the fluid and her own unfamiliar emotion.

"Please—" Somewhere, faintly, there was a loud, rattling crash that seemed to shake her to the core. "Please, just—just be quiet a moment—" The water pounded in her ears, the children sounding more like howling demons, and even his quiet voice was grating.

He let go of her and she fell, and fell, and fell, all the way back into herself, waking with a loud gasp.

It was loud, dark, and wet; for a long, terrifying moment she had no way of knowing who she was, or where she was, or why she was there. There was a terrible roaring, a rapid, uneven clapping of wood against stone, and a fierce pounding that set the world around her in tremors. She reached out blindly, sinking into a sodden mass of thick wet as she struggled into a sitting position. Everything was wet, something was beating above her head, plinking and plunking off the shutters; in the distance there was a lonesome wailing that reminded her of some forlorn ghost.

Sitting up in the darkness, she felt the silliest urge to call out and see if anyone else was actually there. She felt five years old again, waking from a nightmare and alone in her bedroom, afraid that she was the only person left in the world until she called and her parents came to comfort her.

This is ridiculous; I'm over twenty years old now. As she considered her options, a bolt of light shot across the sky, piercing the gaps between the shutters and illuminating the room through the skylight. She blinked against the brightness; her eyes were used to the pitch black, but saw enough to resettle her to a time a place in the split second before she had to screw them shut. She was in the bakery, in Espella's room, in Espella's bed.

And it was wet when it shouldn't be.

Oh no, there must be a leak in the roof…. She hadn't felt any rain falling on her, but she was soaked to the bone and the bedclothes, as well as the straw ticking, were both swamped with what had to be rainwater. What do I do? She'd never been faced with this sort of situation before. If there was a leak in the Shade village, the Shades themselves took care of it. I've got to… Zacharias. I've got to get Zacharias. He knew things, somehow, about construction. It made him a valuable asset to the reconstruction team, but right now she needed to make sure Espella's room wasn't flooded before dawn. She knew how to re-stuff a straw mattress and dry out bedclothes on a line: swollen floorboards and ruined furniture, not so much.

She managed to throw off the heavy quilt and get to her feet. The floor was wet, but not flooded, and she was halfway across the room when her toes caught on something thick, sodden, and unmovable. Even as she tripped and fell, she realized it must have been the rug, but there was little she could do in the dark except fall into the table. Her right hand blossomed in pain and she cried out as she, the table, and something sharp all tumbled to the ground with a resounding crash. She heard the candle fall to her right, the metal ding echoing in her ear, and the chair hit the wall.

"Miss Eve?!" There was a muffled call and a louder, less muffled curse, audible through the wall. "Damnit—hang on, Miss Eve, I'm coming!"

"Wait!" she called back to him, half-reclined on the ground and cradling her hand to her chest. "There's… glass or something, the roof is leaking or—no, the window's broken!" she called as the gale outside shifted, bringing a wave of water over her head to crash against the opposite wall. A fine mist rained down on her, but she didn't dare move with bare feet and glass possibly scattered all around her in the dark.

"Miss Eve?" Barnham burst through the door, a modern emergency flashlight in his hand. She squinted against the light, his face cast into harsh shadow as he looked down at her. "Miss Eve," he gasped, "your hand!" She looked down and sucked in a sharp breath, biting her lip at the sight of the two jagged, lightning shaped gashes crossing diagonally up her index and middle fingers. Blood poured from them, wine-dark and thick as it dripped to pool in the lap of her nightgown.

"The skylight is broken," she repeated, somewhat breathlessly. She knew it wasn't enough blood to hurt anything, but it seemed like a lot. He shone the flashlight around the floor and the story became clearer: the overturned table, melting hail larger than a coin mingling with large shards of glass on the floor, a particularly jagged piece stained pink with her blood nearby, water soaking everything in a direct line from the window to the far wall. "What a mess," she sighed, looking around for a place to crawl to her feet. Her hand, already throbbing in time with her heart, began to burn with stabbing pain.

"Don't move." He stepped forward, his bare toes brushing aside the largest pieces of glass. When that proved ultimately useless, he instead found a bare piece of wet wood and stretched his leg across, leaning towards her.

"What are you—" Her question was answered when he grabbed her wet gown, carefully helping her into a standing position. Glass from the table plinked to the floor from her gown, raining glittering shards around her ankles.

"Come on." He stayed in a half-lunge, allowing her to use him as a living handhold to hop around the worst of the glass. "Might as well wait until morning." He scratched his head, looking up at the high window. "The shutters saved the other ones, I suppose. Nothing can be done about it now. Let me see your hand."

"Oh, right." She kept it palm up, letting most of the blood slide inwards instead of dripping. "Be careful of the blood." He ignored her, gently cupping her fingers in his. The adrenaline of the moment had started to wane, and yet her heart still pounded in time with her fingers as he accessed her wounds.

"You were covered in glass," he said, eyes narrowed as he turned her hand to and fro in the light. "I cannot say if glass made it into the cuts." He met her eyes, the tender regard in his expression making her feel funny. Woozy from blood loss, she excused herself. "Come along," he said in a different tone. "I'll take care of—I mean, I'll bandage it up for you."

"I can do it," she argued as she let him pull her from the room, wondering why she hadn't pulled her hand away, or better yet: why he hadn't let go. Surely the feeling of her blood on his hand was uncomfortable, right? "It's… it's not as bad as it looks," she added, despite the growing pain that made her grit her teeth.

"I don't mind." He led her downstairs, reaching behind him to steady her on the steep staircase and seating her in a chair before the glowing embers of the oven. He stroked it to life, working patiently until the bricks blazed with heat. Once the bakery was lit, the door propped open to allow heat to seep into the room, he stood and dusted off his pants, turning to look at her. "You need dry clothing."

"I brought a change of clothes." She pointed back up the stairs. "They're in my bag, in Espella's room. I think I left it beside the bed?" He nodded.

"I'll go and get them, and something to wrap your hand with. You stay here and warm up."

"No, I can help, I—" His hands found her shoulders, the touch as innocent as in her dream; a shiver ran down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold rain.

"Sit, and keep your hand raised. I'll be back in a moment." The knight was in his voice, commanding and expecting obedience. She began to protest again, but a fierce shudder wracked her frame and she found herself scooting closer to the fire, her body craving the warmth of the crackling flames. He left to go back upstairs, and she drew the chair as close to the oven as she dared, listening to the snap of firewood and the crashing rumbles of thunder echoing over the ocean. She thought, oddly enough, of Mrs. Eclaire's concerns. They would be safe in a warm, modern London hotel right about now, sleeping on soft, dry beds and dreaming of nothing at all.

Barnham returned after a moment, carrying a basin with a kettle inside, a cloth thrown over his shoulder, a quilt tucked under one arm and a bottle of spirits under the other. He juggled the load through the narrow doorframe, mouth pursed in a frown.

"I'm sorry," he said as he placed his items on the counter, taking the kettle and dipping water from one of the large basins. "Your bag is soaked through. I hope nothing's ruined." She sighed, rubbing at her temple with her uninjured hand. Of course it is, with my luck.

"There was nothing in there that couldn't get wet," she admitted. "I guess I can hang my clothes out tomorrow with the bed sheets."

"I'm sorry," he said again, placing the kettle on the open fire to heat the water. He chewed his lip before holding out a smaller cloth she hadn't noticed him bringing down. "I…er… this is mine. I thought you could wear it. It's clean and dry, at least." He nearly threw it at her when she reached for it, beating a quick retreat to the stairs. "I'm going to get extra bandages. Call me when you're through and I'll come back." He turned tail and ran through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

She unfolded the cloth to see it was a plain cotton tunic, the kind wore by the knights when training. Off-white to begin with, it was stained in places with dirt and grass, mended with large, clumsy stitches in others. She cast one more cursory look at the closed door, even though she was certain he'd never debase himself so far as to peek at a lady. A more watchful eye was turned towards the shuttered windows and door, making sure there was no way anyone—as if voyeurs chose windy, wet nights to do their business—could peer through a crack.

Her gown was plastered to nearly every curve, and even the warm air in the bakery was icy on her damp skin. She flipped her wet hair over her head, quickly pulling on the tunic and grimacing when it barely fell over her thighs. Looking around, she grabbed the quilt and sat on it, tucking it around her shoulders and legs near the fire. Quickly she began to warm, cheeks burning pink in the flickering light as her body heat filled the quilt.

"Miss Eve?" He knocked on the door politely. "Are you ready?"

"I am." The door opened and he poked his head through, eyeing her cautiously before stepping in with a roll of white tape in his hands.

"Hmm. Now," he came and drew up another chair beside her, just inside of her comfort zone, before taking the steaming kettle from the fire and pouring the water into the basin. He sat beside her, the basin in his lap, and began to wash the blood from her fingers with a feather-light touch.

"I can do that." She made no effort to stop him, however, and he ignored her. He looked at her only once, when he gently opened the wound with his fingers to check for glass; his eyes met hers, searching for any sign that he was hurting her. It certainly didn't feel good, but she'd felt worse, and managed a small, shy smile. Why on earth am I feeling bashful now?

Was it because they'd kissed? Surely not: that was just… a bet. A won bet. She hadn't felt anything for him before; why, so suddenly, was she dreaming about him? Shy towards him? Nothing had changed from his standpoint; he was always kind and gentle with everyone. Why would it be different with her, when he might have done the same for any bleeding, injured Labyrinthian?

He put down the cloth and grabbed the spirits, pouring a generous amount over the gashes. She bit her lip as her hand lit white-hot from the inside out, the burning, pungent liquid both cold and hot on her bare skin. It was necessary to clean the wound, so she clenched her jaw against the pain.

"Forgive me." She looked up to see him watching her again.

"No, it's fine. Really." She looked away, letting her wet hair hide her face. "It doesn't hurt that badly." She inhaled sharply as she felt his fingers on her palm, pressing their way up her wrist. She looked back, despite her own judgment, to find him tracing the scar she'd bore since childhood. She froze, waiting silently for him to finish, wondering what he'd do when he reached the raised, burned end where the flesh went from smooth scar to ragged lump. He paused, turning his eyes back to her and letting out a soft sigh before drawing away.

"Just a little more," he said, all business again. He patted her hand dry, taking special care near the wounds, before separating her fingers and deftly wrapping them up with strips of bandage. She pinched her lips together as the pain went back to a dull throbbing, lifting her hand to see neat, even rows of bandage that kept her fingers free to move while still protecting the gashes against the elements and holding them together. A knight's medicine, she thought, realizing that he would know the ways to bandage a hand while still allowing for movement, the ability to hold a sword or reins.

"That should be good. I'll look at it again tomorrow, in full daylight."

"Thank you." He faltered a brief moment, and she was shocked at the pained expression on his face. She blinked, however, and it was replaced by his usual confident grin.

"Of course. Anything for you, Miss Eve." His hand grasped hers for one more brief moment before he stood up, letting it drop.

"Can I—ask you something?" He stirred the fire, poking it back to full blaze with one quick look at her wet hair. When he didn't answer, she ventured on carefully. "Why… why the curiosity?" His arm froze mid-poke, face hidden in shadow from the angle of the fire. At first, she wasn't sure if he caught her meaning, but she couldn't let it go. Every look he'd given her this evening was tied together in some way, some way leading back to that stupid bet, and she would be damned if she couldn't unravel the puzzle and lay out the answer to study and triumph over.

He let out another breath, less forceful than a sigh but just as despondent, before facing her with a too-guarded expression.

"Curiosity for curiosity's sake."

"That's a lot of tosh if I've ever heard it." His mouth opened, closed, and he huffed.

"I thought you of all people could figure that out on your own."

"I didn't realize I was meant to." He frowned, running a hand through his hair before putting the poker back in its place. "Was it… an excuse?"

"'Twas no falsehood," he spat gruffly. "I meant it when I claimed curiosity."

"But why?" They seemed to be going in circles. "I don't understand," she finally admitted, angry at herself for not seeing the solution that, to him at least, was obvious.

"You didn't feel anything?" he asked, and for a moment she was utterly lost. Then, as he glared her down with increasing impatience, she thought about the kiss. The strange heaviness in her limbs, the insistent heat of his mouth, the way he'd managed to get three in before her mind had processed one.

"Well yes, but—" She stood, drawing the quilt closer around her thin frame. "My feelings don't help me understand your actions." He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms.

"Must I spell it out for you? You were always better at finding ulterior motives."

"That's true… but I never had to find yours." He stared blankly. "I just can't figure you out sometimes, Zacharias Barnham." His full name seemed to spark something within him, enough that he straightened off the counter and pushed his hands further beneath each arm.

"What's there to figure out?"

"Why me?" Perhaps that was an easier place to start from. Curiosity couldn't be explained away, according to him. Maybe his choice could. He frowned, inclined his head, mouth twisting to the side.

"I admire you," he began. "I respect you. I'm curious—forgive me, but I know no better term. I want to know everything." As he spoke, he stepped forward until they were close enough to touch, his bare toes millimeters from hers. "Mostly, I wished to know if this feeling—this curiosity—would be quenched with one gesture. If it might be a whim in more than name."

"Was it?" Was that all it was? Did she feel the extinguished flame as it passed from him, sending the heat through her body?

"No." He swallowed hard, expression intense. "It became an inferno." It became sticky-hot, as if they stood not in the bakery, but in the Courtroom, right beside the leaping flames. The quilt was suffocating but she dare not throw it off, afraid to show her state of undress, afraid of burning him alive and being consumed herself, afraid that their senses of reason might be lost to the burning stake, that he would start something that she couldn't, or wouldn't, be able to stop.

"What?" The question scratched her dry throat, rough and sharp. He reached out with one hand, once again tucking a stray curl behind her ear. It was still damp, and stayed put, but his fingers traced down until they reached her chin. It was too hot; she couldn't breathe. She couldn't move either, her fingers part of the quilt embracing her, a cloth Daphne rooted to the flour-dusted floorboards.

"May I try to abate it once more?" he asked a mere whisper barely audible over the pop of a log in the fire. "Will you allow it?"

"I told you," she gasped, floating in a molten sea and grasping onto her last lifeline. "I told you that it wouldn't happen again." He bent his head, tilting her chin up until she felt his nose tickling the edge of hers. She leaned away, just enough so that his eyes weren't blurry and she could see the single-minded conviction burning within them.

"If you truly don't wish for this, tell me to stop. Tell me plainly, Miss Eve." His thumb stroked her jaw, testing the skin beneath with a calloused touch. "You won't have to worry; I'll never ask it of you again. We can remain as close friends for the rest of our acquaintance." There was another option? She knew there was, of course she did, but it was such an outlandish notion. Her? Eve Belduke, local social fringe-walker and former leader of witches, who had never had more than one real friend before the last few years?

"What do you even want from me?" she mumbled, face burning, slowly smoldering to ash. He bent further and bumped his lips against hers, not a real kiss but rather a silent answer to her question. What's in it for me? She wanted to ask, ever selfish, but he was already answering her questions just by being this close, by daring to touch her. He'd offer her the immolation she was denied, cast her into the hellfire like the witch she was. He'd burn her alive from the inside out until she begged for mercy, for water, or—she was afraid—for more.

Tell me to stop. He would, she knew; he was noble like that. But a small part of her didn't want stopping, didn't even want to consider the notion. She wasn't at all sure of her feelings, everything moving too fast thanks to a damn card game, no time to consider and doubt and… even perhaps ruin what might otherwise be a good thing. What was life without a little risk, too fast and already done without thinking over the consequences? She felt odd, unable to go back to the bland world of not-knowing but, at the same time, unsure of what she wanted exactly.

She was curious.

"Well." Her lips tickled his and she thought she felt him shiver.

"Tell me to stop. Do it now." She didn't reply, and he angled his head to brush across her lips warningly. "Or now." Still stoic, unrepentant, going to her death calmly—for her would be her death, now. She was already dying; the strangely intimate details that she couldn't seem to place together, clues that were encrypted, puzzle pieces that didn't fit—they were killing her.

It was just Barnham, Zacharias Barnham, the man she knew as a friend, a coworker, an Inquisitor. Smart, sharp, admittedly handsome, muscles and white gleaming teeth and scars that somehow added to the rugged masculinity he emanated. But it was so peculiar, how the things she felt now didn't fit in with the sexless, needless image of him in her mind. Zacharias Barnham, whose unshaved stubble tugged at her skin, whose lips were slightly chapped, whose body was hot and hard and pressed against her at every angle, who clung to her as though he fully expected her to bolt at any moment.

She passively let him do what he pleased, her mind working in overdrive to take the two separate versions of him, squash them together, and come out with a man she still recognized. Then, sensing her hesitation, the lack of response, he pulled back and she found her mouth cold, mindlessly leaning forward to chase the heat. He made a desperate noise in his throat, one that didn't belong either to the old Barnham or this new, after-hours one she had just discovered, and yanked her back to him.

Things seemed to come in flashes of coherency, happening far too fast to keep up with. They were just breathing at each other, panting almost, and then his hands were tangling in her drying hair and she jerked when he reached a snag. She was standing with her back to the fire, then her back to the counter, then on the counter, her thighs digging into the edge as they shifted apart, allowing him to stand between them and stay flush with her.

His lips were on hers, then his tongue; she copied him, testing out new things, seeing what made him slump against her, what made him whimper into her mouth. She moaned, embarrassed at the sound that didn't seem to come from her at all, and yet undeniably hers. Her hand didn't hurt as much, though her whole body ached with a frustrated, energetic urge to move, to be moved.

The quilt was gone, lost to the opposite side of the counter. She felt her stomach exposed to the night air, knew he could see everything. He wasn't looking, though, his eyes trained on her face. His hands were there, though, on her hips, fingers against her skin, splayed over the thin straps of her underwear. He slid his hands down, over her thighs and back again, a look of utter amazement on his face. She fidgeted, staring at the abandoned chair and trying to play catch up, to decide when and how it came to this.

"Eve." The omission of a prefix made it sound odd, though she supposed he couldn't go about calling her 'Miss Eve' forever, especially after having her tongue in his mouth just a few seconds prior. He slid, and she thought he was falling, only to have him on his knees in the next moment, nuzzling into the side of her thigh. It suddenly grew even hotter, warmer than midsummer's noon, stuffier than when she was sandwiched between him and her own body heat inside the quilt. All because he was rubbing his cheeks against something that had never felt another's touch, his roughened skin scratchy in a weirdly satisfying way.

Her hand found his hair, clumsy because it was her left and not her bandaged right one. The strands were thick, catching her fingers in soft clumps. She scratched his scalp, petting him, and he opened his eyes to look up at her. They were dark, bands of cool grey around dilated pupils, scorching her as they soaked up the sight before them. Now, he mouthed, and she didn't knew if he meant it as a query, a reminder to make him stop, or a promise of what was to come.

"Z-Zacharias." His eyes burned even darker somehow, his hands tightening on her thighs. He watched her, as carefully as he did when tending to her wound, as his fingers crawled their way up to the apex, to the elastic of her panties, dipping beneath the waistband and tugging, tugging, exposing her to the night air. She shivered, one part of her wondering in disbelief that she didn't stop this madness while the other writhed within her like a wildcat, sending tingles up her spine and churning desire in her lower stomach.

Now.

He kissed her there, ignoring her hand tightening on his hair, pulling him unthinkingly in her shock. She was frozen, staring over his head to the oven, to the flickering shadows on the walls, unsure of what goal he was working towards. It felt odd, slippery and faltering, not unpleasant but very, very, strange.

Then his tongue ventured out, and found fire.

Her injured hand protested, but she couldn't stop from sliding back, forcing her to let go of his hair and prop herself up before she tumbled backwards over the counter. Her nails dug into the wood, a series of short gasps stealing her breath before she managed to lift her hips with a soft cry that sounded more like a bird than her own throat. He forced her back, steadying her with his arms, her legs on his shoulders and a warning sound vibrating all through her, from toes to head and back down to where he was driving her mad.

It was good, too good, sparking a hunger in her that she hadn't felt in a long time. Something that she'd never felt for anyone else, or at least none that she could recall. She was lost for endless minutes in a desperate hunt for achievement, unable to stop the raw, coarse sounds tearing from her throat. He didn't seem to mind; on the contrary, they only spurred him on. He was always a fast learner, in the Courtroom, on the job, even here. He said he wanted to know everything about her—he was certainly learning, finding what worked and using it to his advantage, calculating the strength needed to keep her thighs from closing around him.

It occurred to her, mere moments before it was too late, that she didn't want this here. Not on the bakery counter, at any rate. She whined, the sound building in her chest, a miracle that it came out as a solid, understandable word.

"S-Stop!" He was on his feet immediately, concern in his eyes, guilt, remorse that he'd crossed some imaginary line that he hadn't known of, and that he'd somehow caused her anguish. She took a few steadying breaths, legs clenching together in a desperate attempt to chase that high she was so close to, wordlessly reaching for him. He leaned in, wiping his mouth on the back of his arm.

"Eve, pardon me, I'm—are you hurt? What—what—" He looked her over, eyeing her wounded hand, begging her without outright words to tell him what he did wrong. She took one last breath, gulping in air, licking her lips.

"Not here." He frowned in confusion. "Not here," she repeated, waving her hand at the bakery. "A… a bed." It was hard to explain, and she didn't quite understand it herself; there was just the strongest conviction that her first time with anyone else—moreover, with him—would be somehow wasted on a counter.

"Oh." There was a sigh of relief. "Um, now? My bed? Or do you mean—" He trailed off, happy to let her fill in the gaps. She looked down, away from his eager to please expression, blushing when she saw the tented state of his trousers.

"Now is… fine." He backed away and let her up on her feet, trying to subtly shift himself out of view and into a comfortable state.

"Here, lemme just—" He shut the oven door, making sure no embers could fly out before walking around the counter, draping the quilt over the empty dining table. "After you?" He pointed to the stairs and she slowly climbed them, her legs still shaky.

"Your room is?" Neighbor to Espella's, she assumed, and wasn't wrong. He held the door open and shined the flashlight in. The light fell on things out of order, small glimpses of the life he had collected in his own, private space; his armor, a chest that had seen better days, a worn-out writing desk, Constantine, a sleeping ball of fluff in the corner. He sat the flashlight upside down on the nightstand, its light focused on the roof and casting the bed next to it in a soft glow. She stared at it, at the unkempt sheets thrown back in haste, the pillow sideways on the floor; even as she looked, he sheepishly tossed it back on the bed before wringing his hands nervously.

"You, ah—feel free to—" He trailed off, scratching his head. She felt his uncertainty, in the same boat as to proper protocol in a situation like this. "Would you… would you mind letting me see you?" he asked quickly, his face already schooled in an way that she knew he expected a denial. She looked down, to the parts of her already exposed to him, and then back to meet his gaze.

"If you do the same." He looked surprised, but pleased, and nodded. She turned, shaking her hair down her back before taking off the tunic. It smelled of him, of this room, she realized, and the intimacy of it caught her off guard once more. To wear his clothing against her bare skin, against her nakedness, spoke of a deeper relationship.

She turned back to see him already down to nothing at all, clearly less shy about his nudity. She squeaked at the sight of his back, scars crisscrossing in uneven patterns as the result of his harsh training at the garrison. His head whipped around and he dropped his shirt, cloth fluttering to the ground as his jaw went slack and his lips parted. His eyes honed in on her chest, dipped to her stomach and back again, cheeks growing noticeably darker despite the dim light of the room.

She wanted to shout at him for openly staring, but she found herself drawn to his body as well. His chest was just as scarred as his back, large marks and little tics, thin scrapes and thick wedges of shining, healed skin, delicious skin drawn over hard muscle, defined pectorals, a definite line between each ab, the V of his pelvis drawing down like an arrow towards—she jerked her head up, unable to look for long and cursing her own virginal naïveté.

"Eve?" He came closer, brushing the curled strands of hair behind her shoulders, feeling her skin in a lazy way. As if they had all the time in the world, instead of just one night. They did have more than one night, though, didn't they? She hadn't thought about it, but there was no reason to suspect this might be a single occasion. It would be laughable to think so. She wasn't the sort to let anyone, much less a man, this close on a whim. And he had said himself that he wanted so much more from her, hadn't he?

"We don't have to do anything. If you changed your mind, 'tis fine with me." She didn't answer, still puzzling over the whole 'one night' deal. "We can just go to sleep if you want. You'll sleep in here, won't you? You don't have to…" He chewed on his lip. "But I'd like you to. I just want to feel you. Is that alright?"

"Will you… do it again?"

"Do what?" She cleared her throat, looking down at their feet, at his strong legs against her slender ones.

"What you were doing downstairs. Will you do it again, now?"

"Yes." His voice dropped to a warm whisper. "Get on the bed, and I'll do it as long as you like."

"Just a little." She walked past him, the mattress springs groaning lightly as she sat, and then tucked her cold feet just underneath the sheet, still askew to the footboard. He crawled up after her, resting on his knees between her thighs before getting onto his stomach, still watching her through his lashes. She tucked the pillow beneath her head, and he laid his chin on her stomach until she was settled and comfortable. She reached out and ran her fingers through his hair again, tracing the line of the scar across his brow, tickling his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch with a smile, humming lightly. "Now."

He nodded, shuffling down the bed until he could dip his arms around her legs again, settling her thighs back on his shoulders. The first touch of his mouth wasn't such a startling concept, but it was still new. He was different in his approach, taking time with her instead of being overeager, kindling the fire instead of dousing it with kerosene. Her bandaged fingers couldn't clutch the pillow, but they still tried. Closer to the roof now, she could hear the storm still raging, the shutters over his window beating frantically as the wind tried to open it.

She felt the inferno that he spoke of as it engulfed her, the fierce pounding of her own heart drowning out the crashing thunder as she melted, skin and muscle pouring into the mattress, her very bones satisfied, his name on her lips and her hands keeping his head in place. She noticed the latter first, loosing her hold so that he could get a breath, afraid that she would suffocate him while trying to regain some control over her lungs.

"Oh. Oh." She couldn't stop panting. The flashlight's glow seemed to dance on the ceiling, but maybe that was her moving, because it stopped when he came back up the mattress to look her in the eyes, pressing his body carefully to mold with hers and happily whispering her name before pressing his nose into the crook of her neck like a cat seeking affection. She felt about as disoriented as she first had upon waking, but this was a good, non-disconcerting sort of confusion.

Her bandaged hand rested on top of his head, her body happily soaking in the warmth he offered despite the sheen of sweat she'd gathered since lying down. When she was fully aware of herself again, she reached the left down between them, tracing the pattern of scars from his chest to his navel, then following the line of his hip down to the apex of his thighs. He stilled, perfectly stone-like as her fingers shyly ran up the length of him, tracing and teasing without meaning to.

"Is this alright?" she asked, offering him the same courtesy. He nodded wordlessly, teeth worrying his lower lip. She pushed him lightly down to take her place, and he lay demurely on his back while she knelt beside him, stroking and touching with the pads of her fingers. She was afraid to do more, afraid to ask how sensitive it was, he was. It was softer than she'd imagined, or perhaps it was soft only because her touches were, because his sighs were.

"I don't know what to do," she finally whispered to him, blushing as she fully swapped their positions, the wetness on her thighs rubbing onto his leg as she buried her blushing face against his strong neck.

"You're doing great," he assured her, and the tight control his voice seemed to attest to it as well. He turned his head, nudging her up with his nose just to press his forehead against hers. "I dreamed of this," he said suddenly, with a shudder she could feel run through her from her fingers. "Of us this way."

"Show me what you like," she begged. It was easier with him, he was always the striver, going forth into the unknown with nothing but his wits and a sword. She had no such luxury, used to living by orders, her one real foray into independence nearly causing a suicide.

She didn't want to hurt him.

His hand found hers, wrapping her tiny fingers around him and quietly showing her how to move, hips bucking as a low hiss escaped from between his teeth. He let go and she continued the motions, adding her own spin, pausing in places, going slower here, faster there, 'losing' her grip just to tap and brush, even barely tickling with her nails.

"Eve…Eve…." His hand found the back of her head, forcing her forehead to stay pressed against his as he panted helplessly. She worked herself free after a moment, bending to kiss his cheek, his ear, his neck, distracting him from her hand. Lost in the motions, her tongue darted out, tasting him, licking over his racing pulse before nipping hard, the flavor of soap and skin exquisite. He jerked, breathless sounds working their way up from his chest, hand fisting the corner of the mattress.

He grabbed her suddenly, catching her by surprise as he held her still, grinding up into her fingers once, twice, three times before letting out a broken moan. His essence covered her hand, spilling over his stomach as he fell back onto the bed, breathing heavily as the last few convulsions shook his body. She kissed his forehead, filled with a strange sort of affection that warmed her from within, her sticky hand pressed unthinkingly against his chest.

"Eve." He blinked, catching her eye and offering a crooked, goofy half-grin. It vanished, however, when he looked down at the mess on his stomach, a wincing grimace taking his place. "O-Oh, Eve, forgive me," he muttered, as though he had any input on when or how such a thing occurred. "I'll—let me get something to clean this up—no!" he huffed when she nonchalantly wiped it on her leg, disregarding the fact that she had been all over his chin earlier. He stumbled to his feet, tripping in the part of the sheet still knotted on the ground. "Wait here."

"Where—" But he was already gone, out the door and naked as the day he was born. I suppose that doesn't matter. She listened to the howling wind. Who'll see him? She lay down on the lumpy mattress, pressing her face into the lone pillow and smelling him there. His scent surrounded her, iron and steel, polish and dog fur and man. So different from the earthy bakery smells downstairs, or the soft fragrance of her flower filled home.

She turned to face the wall, yawning. The act had taken a lot out of her, her wrist sore, her body pleasantly aching, hair dry but covered in sweat and fluids. She made a mental note to wash his sheets tomorrow when she was hanging Espella's out to dry, if the weather permitted. Perhaps she could convince him to risk Mrs. Eclaire's wrath and keep the shop closed, to hang them downstairs to drip in the fire-heated air.

"Here." A wet cloth landed on her shoulder and she turned to see him clean, his stomach and chest glistening slightly in the light from the flashlight. She took it, running the cool, refreshing cloth between her legs and over her neck, scrubbing the worst of the sweat away before tossing it onto the windowsill. She'd take care of it tomorrow, with any luck. He crawled back into the bed, throwing the sheet over them both before collapsing beside her with a sigh.

"Didn't ask," he mumbled, sounding half-asleep already. "We did it backwards, anyway. But I wanna court you proper."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't." She monopolized the pillow, dragging it around to her front and turning onto her stomach, tucking it beneath her arms. He rolled halfway on top of her, arm slung around her waist and cheek pressed between her shoulder blades.

"So that's a yes?"

"What do you think?" She was so sleepy, and his arm was warm, his weight comforting.

"We can still do this too, right?"

"I thought this was supposed to abate that curiosity, Sir Knight." He chuckled, vibrating against her spine.

"You keep giving me new things to be curious about." He rubbed his nose into her hair, and then had to sit up and sneeze. "You're the hardest puzzle I've ever come across."

"Well," she hummed as he moved her hair off her shoulder before returning to his new spot, "I'm glad I'm not alone in the thought."

Afterword: How late! I sort of… forgot this chapter existed. Then I found it again? It happens all the time; I can't remember anything. Anyway, it's here now. Enjoy.