My logic doesn’t make sense, even to myself. This isn’t just about impressing her to get her help with arranging a meeting. This is more now. I want her to like me for who I am.
And somehow, that’s even more terrifying.
Before I can second-guess, I’m holding it out.
“Here. You should have it.”
She pauses, staring up at me with slightly parted lips. Soft lips. Kissable lips. “What? No, those are yours.”
“I caught it for you.” The words come out more intense than intended.
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, then something warmer.
“Khatak—”
“Please.” My voice is rough with need I can’t quite hide. “Let me give you this.”
Because providing for you—even something this small, this pathetic—feels like it matters more than anything else I’ve done all day. Because right now, you’re the only thing that matters. Of course, I don’t mention any of those thoughts out loud. Couldn’t.
She takes it slowly, her fingers brushing mine. That brief contact sends warmth up my arm.
She bites into the krivva fruit. It’s crisp with a crunch, and I can just imagine the honey-like flavor and perfect ripeness.
Her eyes close in obvious pleasure, a soft sound of satisfaction escaping her throat that does absolutely nothing helpful for my self-control. I’m entirely focused on her. On her pleasure.
Her tongue flicks out, catching the small drop at the corner of her mouth.
“It’s so good,” she moans, staring deep into my eyes. And, Gods forbid, I can imagine her saying that under different circumstances. Specifically, circumstances beneath me. Or over.
Who cares? As long as she’s happy and looking at me the way she is now.
“You should taste it,” she tells me, but I reflexively shake my head. This is for her, and her alone. My gift. Something just for her.
“Are you sure?” Her body is leaning towards mine… She’s close. So close I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes, smell the sweet scent of krivva fruit, feel warmth radiating from her.
“Maybe you’ll prefer to taste it this way,” she murmurs, voice low and teasing.
Then her lips are on mine.
Soft. Warm. Deliberate.
Her hand cups my jaw, tilting my face to accommodate our height difference. She’s so small against me, tucking against my body as if she’s made for me. My hands find her waist without thought, pulling her closer until our bodies are flush. Every thought scatters. Every careful mental barrier crumbles. Every reminder about missions and worthiness—gone.
She tastes like krivva fruit and something uniquely her, something sweet and addictive I want to chase forever.
This. This warmth, this connection, this feeling of being chosen—not for accomplishments or family name or political value.
Just me.
Soaking wet. Having scattered someone’s prizes.
And she chose me anyway.
When she pulls back, I’m breathless, my heart pounding.
Her smile is pure mischief and warmth and something that mirrors the hope blooming in my chest.
“It always tastes better when you share,” she murmurs.
