The grey light of dawn had filled the study, chasing away the shadows, painting the stone walls in shades of silver and pearl. The fire was dead, the embers cold, but the room was warm, warm with the heat of their bodies pressed together on the window seat, warm with the love that had been spoken and reaffirmed in the quiet hours of the night.
Rosalind sat with her head on Kaelen's chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His arm was around her shoulders, his hand tracing absent patterns on her arm, his fingers warm against her skin. They had been sitting like this for hours, talking, weeping, holding each other. The question had been asked, and the answer given. But there was more to say, more to hear, more to feel.
"Kaelen," she said, lifting her head to look at him.
He looked down at her, his winter-gray eyes soft in the morning light, the lines of his face relaxed for the first time in days. "What is it?"
