Something delicate

By the time they emerged from the bathhouse, the last light of day had faded into a thick, blue dusk. The inn's windows glowed faintly through the snow-laced air, their flickering lamplight a promise of warmth inside. Edeana's cheeks were flushed from the heat, her damp hair tucked beneath her cloak, tendrils clinging to her neck. Devlin walked beside her in silence, steam still rising faintly from his collar.

Neither of them spoke as they re-entered the inn and made their way up the narrow stairs just as the innkeeper had instructed. The hallway creaked beneath their boots, the low ceiling pressing close around them. When they reached the room, it was already warm. The fire had taken hold in the hearth, casting a soft amber glow over the simple space.

The bed took up most of the room—narrow, but built for two. The quilt had been laid out, and a small kettle rested near the hearth with two chipped mugs beside it. Someone had even left a small bowl of dried fruit and oat biscuits on the table near the window. But what caught her eye most was the steaming bowl of stew that sat on the small table, a loaf of bread beside it, giving off an inviting, savory aroma. It felt like an unexpected kindness, and Edeana's stomach gave a quiet growl in response.

Devlin shut the door behind them and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it over the back of the chair to dry. Edeana lingered by the fire, hands outstretched toward the flames. Her fingers were still a little pink, her sleeves damp from the bathhouse steam.

"They've outdone themselves," she said softly, gesturing to the modest spread. "We must've looked more pitiful than I thought."

He chuckled, eyes lingering on her more than the food. "Perhaps. I'm just grateful for what's in front of me."

She smiled faintly but didn't turn around. A quiet tension hung in her shoulders—something unspoken, still settling between them.

Devlin's gaze was warm, but something deeper moved in the space between them. His eyes, dark and intent, remained on her as she stood by the fire. The distance between them felt thinner now, charged, like the air itself was waiting to shift.

She let out a breath, uncertain of what she was hoping for—only that her heartbeat had grown louder, unsteady.

Devlin stepped closer, his movements deliberate but cautious. "You're still cold," he said, his voice low, almost to himself. His eyes flicked between her outstretched hands and the fire's glow dancing along her face.

Edeana nodded but didn't speak. She wasn't cold—not in the way he meant. Not with the fire behind her and him so near.

She wanted to say something to ease the tightness in her chest, but the words wouldn't come. Everything felt delicate—like the smallest word might fracture the quiet.

"Here," Devlin murmured, draping a thick blanket over her shoulders. The warmth of it was immediate, but it was his nearness that made her breath catch. She couldn't tell if it was the heat from the wool or something far more stirring.

Edeana lifted her gaze to meet his. He was looking at her differently now—softer, more searching. She opened her mouth, but hesitated.

"It's strange," she whispered.

"What is?" he asked, barely above a breath, his eyes steady on hers.

"The... the way things are between us now. How we are practically strangers and yet here we are."

Devlin took the seat beside her, and this time, she didn't move away. The air between them felt heavier than silence—thick with questions and something just out of reach.

His voice was gentle. "Is it unpleasant?" He paused, his hand inching closer to hers. "Is there anything I can do to help you feel at ease?"

The openness in his voice—simple, unguarded—took her by surprise. Her pulse stuttered, and suddenly the small space between them felt vast and fragile.

Edeana shook her head slowly, her voice a murmur. "No. It's not unpleasant."

She hesitated. "It's just... different. Like we're standing at the edge of something, and I know not of the steps I should take."

Devlin studied her face. "Perhaps knowing isn't necessary. Perhaps we ought to take a leap of faith."

His words sank into the quiet like stones dropped in still water. They both looked down, then back at each other. The fire crackled, casting golden shadows across the room.

Edeana reached for the loaf of bread, more to steady her hands than anything. "We should eat before it gets cold."

They settled in close at the small table, the warmth of the food grounding them, even as the tension between them simmered beneath the surface. They passed the bowl back and forth, the meal modest but comforting.

She laughed softly as she recounted tales from her childhood in Leighton—mischief, scraped knees, and the long-suffering housekeeper she'd driven mad. Devlin listened, smiling more with his eyes than his mouth, tucking each word away like it was something precious.

"And you?" she asked. "Did you have a happy childhood?"

Devlin leaned back, his fingers curling around his mug. "I suppose I did... though I'd say it was more structured than happy. There wasn't much room for idleness, but I was well cared for."

She smiled—truly smiled—and the air between them softened for a moment, like a ripple across still water. But it was brief.

When their eyes met again, the silence returned, deeper than before.

She looked down at her hands. "Do you think we would have gotten along if we'd met some other way?"

He paused. "I don't know. If things had been different... maybe we wouldn't have even noticed each other."

Her breath hitched, his words curling around her heart like a whisper.

"I'd notice you," she said quietly. "More than I should."

Devlin reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers—gentle, tentative, as though seeking permission. She shifted slightly toward him, and he leaned in, slow and careful. Their foreheads nearly touched, breath mingling, lips just a breath apart—

Then came a sharp knock at the door: three quick raps, firm and unrelenting.

"Begging your pardon!" came a voice through the door. "Just here to fetch the tray, miss. Wonderin' if yer be needing anythin' else fore I be turnin' in."

Edeana jumped, heart pounding. She stood quickly, crossing to the door and opening it just enough to hand over the tray.

"Thank you. That'll be all for tonight," she said, gently closing the door again.

They stood in silence as the boy's footsteps faded down the corridor, leaving only the fire's soft crackle behind. The fragile moment from before had scattered like smoke. And yet, some trace of it lingered between them—unspoken, but not lost.

Devlin cleared his throat, his gaze dropping. "We ought to retire," he said, voice quiet, uncertain. "It grows late."

Edeana nodded, though her chest still held the weight of everything left unsaid. "Yes," she murmured. "Of course."

They moved slowly toward the bed, cautious and contemplative. The space between them, though slight, bore the gravity of something awakening—still undefined, but real.

As they settled side by side, the quiet wrapped around them. But in it was a strange comfort, as though the nearness of the other was enough—for now. And though neither reached across the divide, both lay still with the faint, unspoken hope that perhaps—in time—this could blossom into something more.