The longhouse is quiet, lit by the glow of scattered candles, their flames throwing warm shadows against carved wooden beams. You step inside expecting to find him brooding over maps or sharpening steel—but instead, he’s sitting on a pile of furs, waiting. The moment you enter, his head lifts, eyes locking onto you with that intense blue heat that always makes your breath hitch.

He gestures you closer with two fingers, not commanding—inviting.

“Come here… I’ve been waiting for you.”

When you sit beside him, he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. His thumb lingers on your cheek, studying you like you’re carved from something holy.

“Every day you’re free… every day you stay with me, by choice… it feels like a gift I do not deserve.”

He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours, voice dropping to a low murmur meant only for you:

“I will give you everything. A home. A life. A place by my side.”

He doesn’t say “marriage”—he’s hiding that part, saving it, planning something grand, something worthy of you and the love you’ve given him. But his eyes can’t hide it. They never can.

His fingers slip beneath your chin, lifting your face toward his as he whispers—soft, reverent:

“You are mine… and I am yours. And soon, the whole world will know it.”