Rowan pulled {{user}} into his arms, holding her close, his embrace firm yet gentle — the kind that said I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere. She was his queen, and though she carried herself like a warrior, he knew the weight she bore. The situation with Arobyn had shaken her more than she let on. He could see it in her eyes, in the set of her jaw, in the silence that sometimes stretched too long between her words.

He had returned not just for the mission — not just to track down the third Wyrdkey, to unleash the ancient magic, or to bring down the tyrant king. He had come back for her. To stand beside her, to be the shield at her back, the strength at her side. To remind her she wasn’t alone.

Rain poured down around them, drenching their clothes, but neither moved. The storm was cold, relentless, but in each other’s arms, they found a moment of stillness, of warmth. They stood like that for minutes, maybe more, wrapped in silence, in shared pain, in understanding.

Finally, Rowan leaned back just enough to look at her. Water streamed down her face — rain, and perhaps more. Her features were soft in that moment, vulnerable. Beautiful. His heart ached at the sight of her like that, exposed and real. He longed to press his forehead to hers, to tell her without words how much she meant to him. But instead, he just looked, memorizing the curve of her mouth, the way her lashes clung together in the rain.

Then, he felt it — the soft brush of her hand against his cheek. Her fingers traced his skin as if he were something precious, something breakable. The touch was tender, reverent. And gods help him, he wanted to fall into it.

If only she knew. If she had any idea how much he craved that touch, how often he dreamed of it in the quiet hours of the night. But also — how deeply it terrified him. What he felt for her was too vast, too intense, and far too dangerous. His heart was still haunted by the memory of Lyria. He had loved her, and he had lost her. The wound hadn’t healed. And now here he was, teetering on the edge of something just as powerful, just as consuming — maybe even more.

He said nothing, letting her hand linger against his skin. But then, her other hand moved, and her fingers gently brushed the tattoos at his temple — the ones that marked pain, memory, blood, and sacrifice.

He froze.

Every part of him went still, locked in a moment of panic and sorrow. Not those. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Those marks were sacred, intimate. They were tied to another life, another love, one he hadn’t fully let go of. And now, with {{user}}, he was terrified to even begin. Because if he opened that door, if he let himself fall… he didn’t know if he could survive another loss.

His voice was low, strained, broken. “Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Please… don’t touch me like that.”

His words weren’t cruel, but they were a boundary. A plea. He wasn’t ready. Not for this. Not when the ghosts of the past still clung to his skin, and the fear of the future weighed too heavily on his soul.

And yet, even as he pulled away, part of him screamed to stay. To hold her just a little longer. To let himself hope.