CHAPTER 77: ...KISS?

The space between them dwindled to a breath. She could see every fleck of gold in his eyes now, the subtle hitch of his throat as he swallowed. The faint scent of smoke and steel clung to him, grounding and familiar, and her heart pounded so loudly she thought he might hear it.

His hand which was resting on the table inched closer until his fingers brushed hers, making her breath hitch and her mind go spiral. She could not even move her head away, afraid he would notice how flustered she was if he did not noticed it already.

For a moment, he leaned in, close enough that her lashes fluttered, close enough that the next word might have been a kiss.

And Ilaria could not help it. She tightened her grip on the bench, her fingers that was on the table curling tightly and she swore her legs have lost their function. Her heart was beating so loud she knew he could hear it by the proximity.

Oh my— Saints, what should I do? What should I do?!

In her panicked state, she closed her eyes as every part of her went still. The noise of the world slipping away until all that remained was the sound of her heartbeat hammering against her ribs and pounding in her ears.

She could feel the warmth of him so close it made her chest ache, the faint rise and fall of his breath somewhere in front of her, the soft brush of air that trembled against her skin.

Her thoughts tangled into nothing, too loud and too bright and she swore she had forgotten how to breathe altogether. As if driven by instinct, her lips puckered slightly, the smallest movement that betrayed every thought she could not name, and for a second she thought— he was going to close the distance.

And then his thumb touched the corner of her mouth.

It was a slow, deliberate motion, warm enough to burn through her stillness, careful enough to undo her completely. The faintest drag of skin against skin, so tender it felt almost reverent, and in that single, fragile second she thought the world itself had stopped moving.

When she opened her eyes, the breath she had been holding finally escaped in a soft, startled gasp.

Eh?

Ilaria blinked, her lips still faintly puckered, the world caught in that fragile silence where her pulse thundered far too loud for something that clearly had not happened.

He was right there, so close she could see the dark fan of his lashes and the slight crease between his brows, but instead of kissing her like she thought he might, he was frowning faintly in concentration.

Her breath stuttered.

And then he pulled back. Ilaria’s gaze moved with him. There, between his fingers, caught delicately as if it were something worth inspecting, was a single golden crumb from the crust of bread she had been eating.

"There," he murmured, a quiet huff leaving him as he wiped his thumb on the napkin nearby. "You had something on your face."

Ilaria stared at him, her mind splintering between horror and the lingering ghost of what she thought had been about to happen.

He... he wiped a crumb.

Not a kiss. A crumb.

"Oh," she managed, voice high and thin like a snapped string.

Then louder, "Oh! Right! Of course! A crumb. Naturally. H-how embarrassing— I mean, not embarrassing! Just crumbs! They— they happen!"

She immediately wanted to evaporate into thin air.

What the hell?!

Ilaria could feel the heat flooding her face, crawling up her neck and into her ears. She pretended to busy herself, swiping pointlessly at her mouth with her napkin like a woman trying to erase the evidence of her own delusion.

The air still felt too heavy, her heart still too loud, and the only thing worse than the embarrassment was knowing that he was definitely trying not to laugh at the moment. Ever the observant husband, of course he would notice what she just had tried to do.

Levan’s brows lifted in wonder at her sudden flustered state, but then a quiet laugh escaped him as he leaned back against the table with that maddening, unbothered calm as if he had not just shattered the fragile dignity she had left.

One second she was all soft and sweet, and the next she was already as red as a tomato.

It was not hard to decipher her thoughts.

Was she... expecting something?

The thought came idly as he watched her lashes flutter and her lips part ever so slightly, like a startled fawn caught between retreat and anticipation. He had not meant to notice, not really, but the way she froze, eyes wide and soft and waiting... it was impossible to ignore.

Ah.

So that was what she thought was happening.

A faint huff escaped him again, watching her scramble to recover, her words tumbling over themselves in flustered chaos as she silently berated herself. Adorable, really. She looked like she might combust from sheer embarrassment.

"You look disappointed," he said lazily. His gaze flicked briefly to her mouth before meeting her eyes again. "Were you hoping for something other than a crumb?"

The sound she made was not even a word, more like a strangled squeak that made him blink in quiet amusement. Her hands were fluttering uselessly as if she could hide her burning face behind them, and the sight nearly coaxed another laugh out of him.

She really was too easy to read.

And Levan, damn him, found that he did not mind one bit.

He should have. He knew he should. Bringing her here had already felt like a misstep since the beginning. She was soft where the world was not, gentle in a place that had no mercy to give. He had told himself she would only be another person to protect and a distraction he could not afford.

But sitting here now, watching the way her cheeks flushed and her fingers fidgeted as she tried and failed to recover her dignity, he began to wonder if the mistake was not in bringing her, but in thinking he could remain unaffected.

Because every time she laughed, the noise of the camp seemed to dull. Every time she smiled at him, with unguarded warmth and complete trust, the edges of his restraint blurred. And every time she gossiped with the knights, her sweet voice filling the usually silent atmosphere, it felt lighter.

Maybe the danger was not that she would slow him down. Maybe it was that she already had, without even meaning to.

The silence between them stretched, fragile and uncertain, filled only by the faint crackle of the fire and the wild, uneven rhythm of her heartbeat that refused to settle. Ilaria kept her eyes on her lap, trying not to think about the warmth that still lingered where his thumb had brushed her mouth.

A crumb. He had wiped a crumb.

Saints above, she wanted to sink straight into the ground...

She pressed her palms to her cheeks, hoping the heat would fade if she just sat still long enough, but it only seemed to grow worse. She could still feel his gaze flickering toward her now and then, and every time it did, she wanted to either run or vanish.

Her thoughts spun in useless little circles.

I shouldn’t have thought—

He wasn’t—

It wasn’t even—

Her face burned harder.

The sound of boots outside broke the fragile silence between them as a voice called out, muffled through the tent walls. "Your Highness. Scouts have returned from the east, you will want to hear this."

Levan’s head lifted, his expression shifting back to that steady calm she had come to know. The gaze of a commander, not the man who had just brushed her skin and put her mind unrest. The change was so immediate it almost startled her.

He stood them, the faint clink of metal and leather following the motion. "I’ll be out in a moment," he said, then turned back to her.

For a breath, he looked like he might say something more, but instead, his tone only gentled. "You should return to the sleeping tent and rest. It’ll be a long night."

She hesitated, her fingers worrying at the edge of her sleeve before she dared to look up. "...Will you come back soon?"

His dusted invisible debris from the cloak draped on his arm and said, "Once I’ve spoken to the scouts, yes. Don’t occupy the whole bed."

Huh?

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "W-what do you mean the whole bed?" she stammered, eyes widening a fraction.

Levan blinked, then, as if realizing how that must have sounded, he tilted his head slightly. "It’s cold," he said simply, the faintest hint of amusement curling his words. "There’s only one cot big enough to keep the draft out. It’s practical."

"Practical," she echoed weakly, though her voice squeaked around the word.

He nodded. "Yes, practical. I don’t plan to freeze to death while you sleep comfortably."

She wanted to argue, she really did, but the words tangled in her throat. Her mind, unhelpfully, decided to summon the memory of those nights back in the palace, of how she had always wake to find that he had never once taken his place beside her.

Even when they had shared the same room before she was reassigned into her new chamber, he had always stayed at the chaise, his cloak thrown carelessly over his shoulders, a book sometimes still in his hand as dawn crept in.

And now...

Her heartbeat fluttered unevenly. Now, he was saying they would share a bed.

"Oh," she trailed off, her face warming all over. "Right. Of course. That’s logical, a-and fair."

Levan’s expression did not change, though there was warmth in his eyes, the kind that made her heart do little flips. He adjusted the strap across his shoulder, gloved fingers brushing the hilt of his sword as though readying himself to step out into the cold again.

She hesitated, watching him in silence for a moment, the lamplight catching the line of his jaw and the faint shadows under his eyes. It was ridiculous how he could still look so devastatingly handsome even now.

"...Be careful out there," she murmured. "Please."

He paused mid-motion, his hand still on the flap of the tent as he looked back at her.

Her gaze wavered under the weight of his silence, fingers curling nervously in her lap. "I mean— not that you wouldn’t be," she rushed to add, tripping over her own words. "It’s just— I’d rather you didn’t come back all— um— injured, o-or frozen, or—"

"Aria." The way he said her name stopped her at once.

He was still looking at her, the faintest trace of surprise softening into something quieter and almost tender. Then, finally, he gave a small, genuine smile, the kind that barely reached his eyes but lingered all the same, making him appear so obviously and utterly warmed by her concern.

"I will be," he said. "Go rest first."

And before she could think of another flustered thing to say, he pushed aside the flap and stepped out, leaving only the faint ripple of cold air and the echo of his words behind.

She could still feel his presence even after he stepped beyond it, the quiet gravity he carried and the warmth that refused to leave her.

When she finally stood, her knees felt a little too soft beneath her as she bit her lip, biting back a small, helpless whine.

"Practical," she muttered to herself, cheeks burning. "Of course it’s practical."

Ilaria stood there for a moment more, hands pressed over her mouth as if to hold in the mortified noise building in her throat. Her entire body was buzzing with leftover nerves and something sharp and foolish and breathless.

He told her to rest.

Rest.

As if she would be able to sleep after that.

She could not help it.

She groaned and slumped back down the bench, burying her face in her arms as she kicked her feet in sheer mortification, thinking that she might as well go crazy out of her mind.

"Oh Saints. He wiped acrumb."

She dragged her fingers through her hair, messing it up as she whined helplessly. The words came out so pitiful she wanted to cry.

"Why am I like this?!"