We make it to my room.
It takes a lot longer than it should. We keep getting distracted on the way—her fingers hooked in my hoodie, my mouth brushing the side of her throat, her breath catching every time I pull her closer. By the time we actually cross the threshold, we're both half laughing, half panting, like we've run a race we never intended to start.
I close the door with my foot. The lock clicks. The wards hum softly.
She looks up at me, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hair a little wild from my hands.
"I'm not afraid of you, you know," she whispers.
I look down at her, taking in every inch of that stubborn jaw, that defiant little chin tilt. Gods, she has no idea.
"Oh, darling," I murmur.
She lifts her chin higher. "I'm not."
I slide my fingers into her hair and cradle her face like it's something precious and dangerous at the same time.
"You should be."
Whatever answer she was about to give dies on her tongue, because I don't give her time to argue.
I kiss her. Hard.
