CHAPTER 85: SUNSHINE

For a moment, the world was made of nothing but his nearness. The space between them pulsed like a fragile thread of heat stretched thin and it took everything in her not to close it. Her breath trembled against his. The palpitation of her heart was too loud she thought she might die of a heart attack.

The tension was so thick it made her toes curl against the sheets. Her mind blurred into a soft, dizzy haze, making any sane thoughts slip through her fingers like water. All she could think of was the weight of his gaze, the steadiness in his breath, and the way his voice could unravel her without even trying.

Levan exhled then, breaking the spell.

His fingers slid along her neck again, not in restraint this time, but something gentler and grounding. His thumb pressed once at the hollow just below her jaw, and she almost leaned into it.

Almost.

"You should get up," he said, his voice still rough but different now, as if he was slowly reverting back to the Levan she knew. "Your breakfast’s getting cold."

The words landed like a drop of cold water against fire. He nudged his head toward the small table beside the bed, and only then did she notice the breakfast he’d set there.

A tray rested on the low wooden table. There was a small bowl of porridge, still warm and sprinkled with crushed nuts and a drizzle of honey. Beside it was a plate of soft bread, lightly toasted, with a pat of butter melting slow at the center. A cup of tea sat nearby.

Ilaria blinked, her lashes fluttering like she had just woken up from a long dream. "...What?"

Levan’s mouth curled, not quite a smile, but something that carried a sense of amusement. "We’ll be leaving for Deyliric Expanse soon," he said, finally pulling his hand away, though his touch seemed to linger like a phantom. "You’ll need the strength."

Her heart still had not caught up to what just happened. She stared at him, at the calm steadiness he wore so effortlessly as if he had not just stolen every coherent thought she had. He stood up and briskly turned away, reaching for his cloak that was draped on the chair, his movement was fluid, unhurried, as if nothing had happened at all.

But she knew better.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Her pulse was still drumming when she let out a protest, "You can’t just say that after—"

He looked over his shoulder, one brow lifting in faint, knowing challenge.

"After what, Aria?"

The question struck clean through her composure, and she went silent, cheeks warming in quiet defeat as she hunched back on the blanket and looked away. He did not need an answer to that, his faint, infuriating smirk said he already knew.

This wife of his was far too predictable. Every time she tried to glare, her eyes gave her away first. Every time she wanted to argue, she bit her lip like she was the one in the wrong. Saints, even the way she tried to hide her face now, like he could not see the colour blooming down her neck was enough to make him want to laugh.

He did not, of course. He had learned better than to comment her outright when she was flustered. But Gods, she made it so difficult.

Levan turned back toward the tent’s entrance, hoping to save her from her embarrassment, but not before saying, "Finish your breakfast. We’ll be leaving soon."

Then he stepped out, leaving her with nothing but the lingering ghost of his touch and the maddening echo of his voice in her head.

For a long, helpless moment, Ilaria just sat there, her pulse still fluttering somewhere near her throat. The air he left behind felt so heavy that she swore by the name of the White Dragon that the tent itself had absorbed the weight of what almost happened.

Her fingers went to her neck before she could stop them, tracing the exact place his hand had been, as though she could still feel the shape of his palm there. Saints, what was that? One breath, one look from him, and her thoughts had turned to fog.

She looked at the untouched plate of food beside her. The bread and porridge was still warm; a cup of tea still steaming faintly, and she groaned softly, burying her face in her hands.

Breakfast. As if she could even think about food after that.

Because now, all she could taste was him, not his lips, no, but the almost of it and the ache of what he had left unfinished.

~×~

By the time she stepped out of the tent, Ilaria looked every bit her usual self again, or at least she hoped she did. Her hair was neatly braided, the ends catching sunlight like spun gold, and her cloak was fastened just right, though her heartbeat had not quite calmed down since earlier.

The morning air was crisp and clear, carrying the scent of pine and smoke from the dying campfire and the trees. Around her, the camp stirred with quiet motion of soldiers packing and armour clinking faintly.

When Ilaria stepped into view, a few of them paused mid-motion. She could feel their eyes on her, not out of disrespect, but in quiet surprise. Because after what had happened the night before, no one had expected her to emerge with that same unshaken brightness in her eyes.

Her smile was warm, her steps light as if the night’s horror had been nothing more than a fading storm she had already learned to walk past. And maybe that was why some of them looked at her a little longer, with the faint, bewildered kind of respect reserved for those who found grace where others would have crumbled.

One of the younger knights even muttered under his breath, "How does she do that..."

She did not hear it. The hem of her cloak brushed against the grass as she made her way toward the horses, sunlight spilling across her hair like a crown.

"Good morning!" she greeted brightly, her voice lilting across the camp as she approached Alonzo and Maelon, who were checking the harnesses.

Both men turned, their expressions almost identical, a mix of disbelief and relief that she was smiling. Maelon blinked first, his gloved hands pausing mid-strap. "You... look chipper, Your Highness," he spoke carefully, afraid her mood might shatter if he spoke too loud.

But Ilaria only grinned wider. "Why wouldn’t I be? It’s such a beautiful morning."

Alonzo, who was standing beside him exchanged a glance with Maelon, one of those silent, wordless conversations soldiers were good at. His brows furrowed slightly, the faint lines of concern never quite leaving his face.

"After last night, I thought you’d still be resting," he said gently, his voice rough from lack of sleep. "You must’ve had quite a scare. Are you sure you’re well, princess? Does your wound still hurt?"

"I slept just fine," she said, brushing a bit of dust from her sleeve before rolling it up, showing him her clear, perfect skin to prove her point. "See? Not even a scratch. It’s like it never happened."

Her eyes gleamed with something between pride and relief. "I told you I’ll be fine, didn’t I? You and everyone else were worrying for nothing. Husband made such a fuss too, but look—" she flexed her hand lightly, "—good as new."

Maelon made a faint choking sound, somewhere between disbelief and a laugh. "With all due respect, princess, people don’t usually call nearly being mauled nothing."

"Well," she said, smiling, "then they must be worrying too much."

And once she started, she could not seem to stop. "Everyone’s always so dramatic about these things. It’s just a little accident, really. I didn’t even feel it that much after— well, after the whole commotion."

"You should’ve seen Alonzo’s face, though, he looked like he’d seen a ghost." She turned to him, grinning. "You really did! You went all pale and serious like the world was ending."

Alonzo’s eyes widened in disbelief. "Princess—"

"Oh, and the way the knights stared! Honestly, you’d think none of them had seen blood before. I almost felt bad for them. I had to keep smiling just so they wouldn’t think I was about to collapse. Can you imagine? Me, collapsing?" She laughed softly, oblivious to how both men’s gazes had shifted past her.

Maelon had straightened first. Alonzo followed a beat later as he said, "Your Highness."

Ilaria blinked in confusion. "Huh?"

Then she felt it, the light pressure at her shoulders and the faint tug of fabric being adjusted.

Her breath caught as she looked up, and there he was. Levan standing behind her, close enough that his shadow spilled over her boots, his hand steady as he fixed the clasp of her cloak that had come loose. His expression was calm in that way that made her pulse stutter.

"Talking so much this early in the morning," he mused. "It must mean you’ve fully recovered."

Ilaria blinked up at him, startled by the nearness and immediately turned flustered. "I— well— someone has to keep the spirits up," she said, trying for composure but failing spectacularly. Her words came out breathy, her smile a touch too bright.

"Besides, it’s such a beautiful morning. It’d be a shame to waste it being quiet, don’t you think so, husband?" Her eyes sparkled as she said it, trying to hold his gaze even as her heart betrayed her with every rapid beat. There was still pink across her cheeks, but she looked every bit herself again, the sunshine and softness wrapped in a cloak he had just fixed.

Levan’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, the corner of his mouth curving into something faint but unmistakably fond. The kind of smile that reached his eyes before it reached his lips.

"Do I think so?" he murmured, lowering his head just slightly, enough for his shadow to fall across her face. "Mm. Perhaps I do."

Before she could say anything more, his hand came up, fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. And then, to her utter mortification, he gave her cheek the gentlest, almost teasing pinch, the way one might do to a child caught being irresistibly adorable.

Ilaria’s eyes widened as colour rushed all the way to her ears. "H-husband!" she hissed, scandalized, swatting his wrist with both hands to hide her burning face.

Levan’s quiet chuckle rumbled low in his chest, the sound far too warm for the early hour. "That’s for trying to win an argument with your smile," he said, entirely unbothered.

Behind them, Alonzo and Maelon froze like they had just witnessed an entirely different kind of beast. They exchanged bewildered look, as if what the crown prince just did was a crime worth a death sentence.

Meanwhile Levan, entirely aware of their stunned expressions, merely took his wife’s hand and turned as if nothing at all had happened. "We’re leaving in five minutes," he said evenly, already walking toward the horse.

"Yes, sire!" The knights responded in unison.

Ilaria, still very much caught between indignation and dizzy embarrassment, stumbled a half-step before hurrying after him. "Y-you could at least pretend to be sorry..." she mumbled.

"For what?"

"For..." she gulped. "For doing that in front of everyone."

They stopped just before reaching the horses. He turned to her fully this time, the faint rustle of his cloak the only sound between them.

"I didn’t realize," he said, the gold in his eyes glinting faintly, "that I needed permission to show affection to my own wife."

The words struck deep like sunlight through glass. It spread through her before she could stop it, curling heat into her chest and turning her thoughts to haze. Her lips parted, but all she could do was stand there and drown in the quiet gravity of his tone.

He did not press further. Instead, he turned toward the horses, his composure as smooth as he fixed his glove. "Now," he glanced back at her with the calmness of an ocean, asking with mirth in his eyes, "do you want to ride with me?"

Her pulse stumbled, her cheeks burning in betrayal of the calm she tried to keep, wondering how he could still ask her that as she blurted out, "No!"