Cinder walked back into the mansion, her bag still in her hand. The grand hallway felt different now. It didn't feel like a cold, imposing place anymore. It felt like a place where a mistake had been made, and an apology had been given.
Clovis led her not to her small room, but to the kitchen. The lights were low. The ruined dinner had been cleared away. The room was clean and quiet.
"Can I make you something?" Cinder asked softly, her old habit of care taking over.
"No," Clovis said. His voice was gentle. "Sit. Please."
She sat at the small wooden table in the corner of the kitchen, where she sometimes ate her own meals. Clovis sat across from her. He looked uncomfortable, like he was about to have a conversation he didn't know how to have.
"I need to explain," he began, staring at his hands. "I haven't always lived like this. I grew up with very little. My parents worked all the time. Dinner was often a quiet, cold meal. There was no... warmth."
Cinder listened, her heart aching for the lonely boy he described.
"I promised myself I would never be poor or powerless again. I built this." He gestured around them. "But I also built these walls. I thought being cold and controlled was the only way to be strong. I thought I didn't need anyone."
He finally looked at her, his gray eyes soft. "And then you arrived. With your muffins and your soup and your quiet strength. You saw through my walls with a simple bowl of tomato soup."
Cinder felt her breath catch in her throat.
"That day in the library," he continued, "was the first time in years I didn't feel alone. Your food doesn't just feed my body, Cinder. It feeds a part of me I thought was dead. When I thought you had left tonight, that part... it felt like it was dying again."
He reached across the table and gently took her hand. His touch was warm and sure.
"The only thing emptier than this mansion," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, "was my life before you arrived in it." I was in total darkness before you came into my life.
Tears welled in Cinder's eyes. She turned her hand so it was holding his.
Clovis stood, slowly, and came around the table. He knelt beside her chair, so his eyes were level with hers. He cupped her face with his hand, his thumb gently wiping away a tear.
"Cinder," he said, her name a prayer on his lips.
And then, he leaned in and kissed her.
It was not a demanding kiss. It was soft, and questioning, and full of all the feelings words could never properly express. It tasted of forgiveness, and understanding, and a hope that had been missing for far too long. When they finally pulled apart, the kitchen, once a place of work, now felt like the heart of a brand new home.