I’m almost impressed.

I feel the exact moment it hits him, the way his body locks up, his breathing stalling like he just realized he’s holding me. Like he just noticed I’m this close, practically curled into him, my breath against his throat.

His grip on my waist tightens.

A slow inhale.

A pause.

"Soooo..."

Oh no.

"Would this be a bad time to ask if you’re in love with me?"

I make a noise. It might be a groan. Might be a suffering sound only gods can understand.

He grins.

I can feel it.

"I mean, it’s fine if you are," he continues, leaning ever so slightly toward me, like he’s soaking this in, like he’s been waiting for an opportunity to ruin the moment. "I just think we should probably talk about it now before it gets weird."

I exhale sharply against his neck, debating whether it’s worth spending the last of my energy to punch him off this horse. "Elias."

"No, no, it’s okay," he interrupts. "This is a safe space. You can tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"That you’ve secretly been in love with me this entire time, but were too afraid to admit it. It happens. I get it."

I huff out a laugh. "Elias."

"Yes, darling?"

"Shut up."

He does not.

But he does laugh, warm and rich, pleased with himself in a way that makes me roll my eyes but doesn’t make me move away.

I don’t need easy.

But right now, I don’t mind it.

He begins listing off all the reasons he’s allegedly lovable. It’s been five minutes.

"I’m just saying," he says, shifting slightly to adjust his hold on me, "if you really think about it, I have the full package."

"Oh gods."

"No, no, hear me out." He clears his throat, his voice dropping into that tone, the one that means he’s about to say something awful. "First of all, I’m handsome. Objectively."

"Debatable."

"Rude," he says, offended. "But fine. Let’s go deeper. My personality? Immaculate. Witty. Fun. A little dangerous. The perfect mix. Like if a scoundrel and a poet had a beautiful, irresponsible love child."

"I hate everything about this conversation."