Elvira was about to speak—some quiet truth blooming on her tongue—when a soft knock interrupted the stillness. Her breath caught, and Anson's eyes flicked to the door, then back to her.
He didn't move from the bed, not yet.
"Who is it?" he asked, voice still thick with sleep and affection, but now laced with a hint of irritation.
"It's the maid, my lord," came the muffled reply through the wooden door. "Lord Victor is asking for your presence."
Anson sighed through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. "Of course he is."
The warmth in the room shifted. Not gone—but dimmed. Like a candle flickering against the pull of wind.
He leaned down and pressed one last kiss to Elvira's forehead, then rested his own against hers for a breath. "Don't move," he whispered. "You're the best part of my morning."
She blinked up at him, caught between flustered and fond. "You say that like you don't want to leave."
"I don't." He stood, grabbing a shirt from the chair nearby, sliding it over his shoulders. "But if I don't show up, your father's going to assume I've kidnapped his daughter."
She gave him a pointed look. "Technically, I'm in your bed. Shirt and all."
He grinned at her over his shoulder. "You say that like I'm the villain in this story."
"You definitely have the villain smirk," she muttered under her breath, but she was smiling.
As he reached the door, he glanced back one last time—at her, sitting against the pillows in his shirt, hair a little wild, eyes too soft for someone who claimed she hated mornings.
"You better still be here when I get back," he said.
"I'll think about it."
He smirked, opened the door—and then he was gone.
The room felt quieter without him. But not lonely.
Elvira reached for his pillow, pulled it close, and let herself sink into the scent of him. Still wrapped in his warmth. Still held by his words.
Still trying not to fall for him too fast.
And failing completely.
Elvira was fast asleep, her breath soft and even against the pillow. The lingering scent of Anson's shirt still clung to her skin, comforting in ways she didn't want to admit out loud.
She didn't stir when the door creaked open again.
Didn't notice the quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of discarded clothing, or the weight shifting on the bed.
Not until a strong arm snaked around her waist and pulled her in—firm, warm, unmistakably familiar.
She let out a little sound—half surprise, half drowsy protest—but didn't fight it. Her back met his chest, and the breath he let out was like a sigh of relief against her neck.
"Elvira," he murmured into her hair, voice low and wrecked from whatever meeting he'd just come from. "You waited."
"Mmm," she mumbled, eyes still closed. "You took forever."
"I was thinking about this the whole time," he whispered, nuzzling the curve of her shoulder. "About coming back and finding you still here. Still mine."
She cracked one eye open, lips tugging up despite herself. "That so?"
"Yeah." He kissed the spot just beneath her ear, then dropped his forehead to her shoulder like he needed to recharge from touching her.
They lay like that for a while—her in his shirt, him shirtless and warm behind her, their limbs tangled up like threads that refused to be untied. He didn't say much. He didn't need to.
His grip on her waist tightened slightly, protective and grounding.
And just before she drifted off again, she heard him whisper, soft and hoarse, like it wasn't meant for waking ears:
"I missed you. Every second."
Elvira didn't open her eyes right away. She didn't have to. She could feel him—his heartbeat against her back, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers traced lazy circles over her hip like he was grounding himself through touch.
"You smell like trouble," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and longing.
She let out a faint laugh, her hand brushing against the back of his. "And you smell like soap and firewood."
"Is that a complaint?"
"Mm. Not yet."
He chuckled lowly and dipped his head, pressing a soft kiss to the curve where her neck met her shoulder. It wasn't just affection—it was need. But not the desperate kind. The quiet, constant one that sits in your chest like a second heartbeat.
Elvira shifted slightly, adjusting so she could look at him over her shoulder. Her hair spilled across the pillow, a dark halo, and her eyes were still heavy with sleep—but they found him, found his gaze, and didn't let go.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"You're beautiful," he replied. No hesitation. No teasing this time.
She tried to roll her eyes, but it faltered when his hand slid up from her waist to her ribs, resting there like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch more, but couldn't stop himself from trying.
"I keep thinking this is a dream," he said, almost to himself. "That I'll blink and you'll be gone."
Elvira's throat tightened. She reached up, her fingers brushing along his jaw.
"I'm still here," she said quietly.
He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with reverence.
"I know," he murmured. "But I also know how fast you run."
She didn't deny it. She couldn't. But she didn't pull away either.
Instead, she turned in his arms, facing him fully now, her legs tangling with his under the sheets. Her hand settled against his bare chest, right over his heart.
"I don't want to run anymore," she said, the words barely audible.
Anson looked at her like she was made of fragile glass and starlight. He leaned in, kissing her forehead, then her temple, and then—finally—her lips, soft and slow and reverent.
It wasn't hunger. It was home.
"You're safe here," he whispered against her mouth. "With me."
She nodded, and this time when she melted into him, there was no hesitation. Just quiet, sleepy warmth and the kind of closeness that didn't need words.
The quiet was warm, tender… until Elvira's stomach growled.
Loudly.
Mortifyingly.
She froze. Her entire body went rigid in Anson's arms as if that could undo what had just happened. A beat passed—then two—and slowly, her cheek flushed a deep crimson.
Anson blinked once.
Then burst into laughter.
Not the mean kind. The soft, genuine kind that shook his chest and made her want to bury her face in the pillow and never come out again.
"Oh no," she groaned, pulling the blanket over her head. "I swear I wasn't trying to ruin the moment."
Still laughing, Anson gently tugged the blanket down just enough to see her eyes.
"You didn't ruin anything," he grinned. "If anything, it's the most honest thing you've said all morning."
She scowled at him, but it didn't hold. Especially not when he leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose.
"You're cute when you're starving," he teased. "Very dangerous. But cute."
"I hate you."
He rolled out of bed with that same lazy confidence that always drove her crazy. Stretching, shirtless, with sunlight glinting off his skin like it was part of his plan to leave her flustered. He reached for a shirt, tossing her a wink over his shoulder.
"Good thing I know how to cook, huh?"
"You can't cook," she called after him.
He paused at the door, hand on the frame, and shot her a smirk.
"Watch me."
And with that, he disappeared into the hallway, leaving Elvira sitting up in bed, still wrapped in his linen sheets, her heart embarrassingly full and her stomach still rumbling.
Elvira barely lasted two minutes wrapped in the silence of that room. Boredom wasn't really the problem—restlessness was. Her heart wouldn't calm down, and her head kept replaying the way Anson had looked at her just moments ago. So she slipped out of bed, grabbed the soft robe hanging by the door, and padded barefoot down the corridor toward the kitchen.
She expected warmth. Maybe the smell of burning eggs if Anson was being cocky about his "skills."
What she didn't expect… was voices.
Low. Serious.
She slowed her steps, just outside the kitchen door, heart suddenly pounding for reasons she couldn't name.
"Did you find it?" Alanza's voice was sharp, nothing like the relaxed tone he usually wore like armor.
Anson answered, his voice quieter. "No. Not yet. I'm still looking for it."
Elvira froze.
She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. Truly. But something about Anson's tone—strained, secretive—glued her to the spot.
"Stop getting distracted," Alanza snapped. "You know why we're here."
"I'm not getting distracted," Anson replied, but there was hesitation in his voice. "I'm just… stalling."
Stalling?
Elvira's lungs refused to fill. Her limbs locked up. Her mouth went dry.
"Well, stall all you want," Alanza hissed, "but we don't have much time. Find it. Or everything we've worked for—everything—we lose it all."
Elvira didn't wait to hear more.
The moment Alanza started turning toward the door, her body finally obeyed. She ran.
Heart shattering, lungs burning, tears slipping free before she even knew they were coming—she ran.
Her bare feet hit the cold stone floors like drums of betrayal. She didn't know where she was going. She just needed to get away.
She reached the stables, barely able to see through the tears. A few horses neighed nervously, startled by her energy. She went for the closest saddle when—
"Elvira?"
It was Ronin. He stepped out of the shadows, concern etched deep in his brow. "Hey, hey—what happened? Are you hurt?"
She shook her head frantically, her voice barely working. "I need to leave. Please. I can't stay here. Not another second."
He studied her face—he didn't ask questions. Not yet. Just moved.
Without a word, Ronin helped her mount the horse, hands firm, efficient. Then he climbed onto his own and nodded once.
"Hold on," he said.
And together, they rode off into the early morning mist, leaving the warmth of the estate—and a kitchen full of secrets—behind them.