November in the capital of Erriador has always been wintry, even with autumn still clinging to the air.
But inside Neva's home, warmth gathers in the kitchen, where she lingers by the fire, slowly stirring a stew of beef and vegetables.
She muffles the stew with a lid and drifts into the living room, the soreness in her heart deepening as time stretches thin, untouched by the balm of his presence.
She settles at the kotatsu, the words in her book blurring together until she buries her head in her arms,
peeking toward the entrance as she waits for him to ease the heaviness she carries.
Why… when had this happened? How had he crept into her soul so unnoticed, taking roots there, deep and unyielding?
She startles at the sound of the doorbell, fingers working quickly at her damp curls as her heartbeat quickens.
Kaleidoscopic emotions bubble within her, and she falters mid-step, "Oh, Father," she whispers, "what is wrong with me?"
At the sound of the firm, gentle voice in her mind, she reaches for the door and opens it.
There's Rhett—mesmerizing... consuming, dark hair shifting in the breeze, hands in his hoodie pockets, his gaze strayed toward something unseen in the dark.
He turns, smiling slightly. "Hey, Angel."
And the dimness in his expression smothers her, so unlike his usual light that she knows—without doubt—it is because of her.
The ride home from his workshop was quiet, broken only at their arrival—
when she asked if he'd come for dinner, and like always, he said yes.
"Come in," she whispers, resisting the urge to ask why he's late.
He shakes his head. "The workshop needs me. And trust me—if it weren't urgent, I wouldn't miss dinner with you for anything," he adds, a teasing smile curling at his lips.
"Okay," she replies, her heart caving in—anger, disappointment, hurt. She doesn't know.
Before she closes the door, she adds, "You should've just left. I didn't need a reason."
Before the thud follows, his hand catches the door through the narrow gap. She doesn't hide—can't—as he steps closer, her eyes locking with his, the hurt in those echoing depths unmistakable.
"Then why bother with dinner?" he asks, his voice rough at the edges.
He leans closer, his breath warm against her skin. "Why go to church with me—why spend time with me at all?"
She lingers, stiff and silent, the lump in her throat stealing her voice.
"What are we, Neva?" he breathes, his eyes lingering in hers... searching her soul, her heart, and slipping to her lips.
"Friends..." she whispers.
He leans in, his lips grazing her cheek. "Is it against the rules," he asks softly, ''if a friend kisses you here?"
Barely a whisper of air, she replies, "No."
"And here?" he murmurs, pressing his lips to her jaw.
"No," she breathes, her eyes slipping shut as she finds herself pressed into his warmth, feeling the quickened beat of his heart beneath her palms.
"And here?" he whispers, his thumb grazing her lips.
Everything fades to stillness, and she stays within the rhythm of their heartbeats, her body softening in his heat, the scent of him clouding her thoughts.
"No," she gasps—her world spinning as his soft lips comes down on hers.
Golden sparks burst behind her closed eyes as she loosens her hold on everything, surrendering to the heavenly feeling of melting into his sweet mouth.
He lifts her into his arms, and she drifts, dazed and feverish, as he settles her against the couch, their breaths tangling, fading as their lips meet, souls burning in a garden of love and longing.
Tides crash against wildfire as their lips move together, the feeling of him filling her, overtaking her.
Time ceases to exist—until breath becomes a necessity, and she presses her palms to his chest, drawing back.
It is a dream, and in it she lives and flies, and would die a thousand gentle deaths as their lips meet again, igniting and threading into one.
It is the first time she realizes how irksome it is that a living body needs air, the weight of mortality pressing at her chest when all she wants is not to part from him, not even for a little while.
As he presses a kiss to her forehead, she prays, prays to her Father—for him to be there with her, in heaven, where life and love never cease.
He rests his forehead against hers, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him.
"What did you just do? I don't think I can ever live without this."
"What?" she asks. "Without a kiss?"
He leans back, smiling, his fingers tracing her curls from her temple.
"Don't you realize what you do to me?" he whispers. "That I'm so—so in love with you."
A warm tingle creeps into her cheeks and spills down her chest, her body yielding as he brushes her lips with a gentle kiss.
Rhett's smile turns teasing. "So—you let any friend kiss your lips?"
Neva looks away, certain that if she didn't know better, she'd believe her whole body had become crimson and gold, set aflame.
"You're not just any friend," she murmurs, breath unsteady.
He grins, lifting her hand to his lips. "Then maybe a boyfriend?" A kiss to her palm. "Did my kiss finally do the trick?"
"You're impossible," she mumbles.
Suddenly, he searches her face with such intensity. "Did I finally win you over?"
Hope and love—and something deeper—flicker in his eyes.
She touches his face, and he leans into her hand. "You did."
Her heart softens at the tears in his eyes, and all at once it crashes over her—the hurt he must have borne, climbing the barbed walls of her soul, reaching for the blossom hidden in her garden.
And now, recognizing the voice of her Father at last—the answer she had long evaded—she places the scarlet rose into his bleeding hands.
"I'm gonna marry you," he says.
She smiles. "Sure."
"And you'll be the mother of my children," he whispers.
"Sure." And she loses herself in his marmoris gaze, tears burning her eyes, as that dreamlike smile curves his lips.
With a whisper of love, his lips meet hers once more, and a favorite Bible verse drifts through the oceans of her mind: Love is patient and kind; it does not envy or boast, it is not arrogant or rude.
It's as if someone has yanked her from a blissful dream, she pushes him back, and he frowns, reading the confusion in her gaze.
The faint burnt scent sharpens, and she murmurs, "The stew…"
She pushes him off at once, rushing toward the kitchen.
She turns off the stove and, wearing a mitten, lifts the lid. Her shoulders slouch as a sigh escapes her at the parched meal that had promised to be a good stew.
"Burned our dinner, did you?" Rhett teases, moving toward her.
"Your fault," Neva says, playfully glaring at him.
He pulls her close, his thumb stroking her waist. "Or maybe we just end the night with those chocolate cookies we baked?"
She chuckles and boops his nose. "No sneaky moves, my Mr. Chocolate-obsessed lover."
His grin only widens. "I am your lover," he says slowly, as if savoring every word.
"Bet you are," she grins, wrapping her arms around his neck.
A soft, amused chuckle escapes him, eyes glittering as he leans in. "I love you.''
Then her smile falters, another realization dawning. "Wait… weren't you urgently needed at the workshop?"
"Ah... well. I don't care." He shrugs. "And you're stuck with me—twenty four seven, all the rest of our life."
She giggles as their noses brush, and he kisses her—unnaturally happy by his idea of forever.
He tightens his hold as she melts into him, the spark between them igniting, flaring hotter, insatiable in its longing.