She insists on a picnic.

We are being hunted across two realms, pursued by men who pray with knives and fae who negotiate with cages — and she insists on a picnic.

“It’s a field,” she says, as if that explains everything.

It does not.

The field is wide and gold-tipped, tall grass bending under a lazy wind. There’s a stream cutting through it like a careless signature. No visible wards. No defensive advantage.

I scan it anyway.

She spreads a blanket before I finish my sweep.

“You’re scowling,” she notes.

“I am assessing.”

“You’re scowling while assessing.”

I exhale through my nose but say nothing. She takes that as victory.

She kneels in the grass, pressing her palm to the earth as if greeting it. The response is immediate.

Flowers bloom.

Soft, pale things pushing up through the green, petals unfurling toward her fingers like they’ve been waiting. It is never violent, her power. It is patient. Certain.

Her heartbeat carries through the air — steady, rhythmic. I feel it the way one feels the pull of a tide. Somewhere, if there were sacred doors buried beneath this field, they would be listening.

“You’re glowing again,” she says lightly.

I glance down. The gold-thread scars along my forearm shimmer faintly where magic hums beneath the skin.

“I am not.”

“You are. It’s subtle. Very ominous.”

“I am always ominous.”

She smiles at that, pleased with herself, and begins unpacking bread and fruit like we have nowhere else to be.

I remain standing a moment longer.

Then I sit.

She hands me a piece of bread without looking up, as if this is routine. As if we do this every week. As if there are no forces searching for the sound of her pulse.

The wind shifts. The grass ripples. For a moment, it is only us.

“You’re thinking too loudly,” she says.

“I am not thinking loudly.”

“You are. I can feel it.”

“That is not how thinking works.”

“It does with you.”

She leans back on her hands, face tilted to the sun. The light catches her hair. It makes something in my chest tighten in a way I do not examine too closely.

We eat quietly.

Not tense quiet.

Easy quiet.

The kind that does not demand filling.

After a while, she turns, gathering her hair over one shoulder and presenting her back to me without ceremony.

“Braid it.”

I stare at the offered task.

“You are capable of braiding your own hair.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “But you do it better.”

This is untrue.

But I move closer anyway.

My fingers are more accustomed to hilts than softness. Still, I separate the strands carefully, weaving them with precise, practiced movements. I have learned to do this efficiently.

She hums faintly as I work.

“If anyone from your court could see you right now,” she says, “they’d faint.”

“They would not.”

“They would.”

I secure the end of the braid with a thin leather tie from my wrist.

“They would call it strategic,” I say. “Keeping your hair from obstructing your vision.”

She laughs softly. “Of course you would.”

The flowers have spread wider around us now, brushing against my boots. A breeze lifts the edges of the blanket.

She looks over her shoulder at me.

“You ever wish we could just… stay somewhere?” she asks, almost casually.

“We stay where it is safe.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

I meet her gaze.

Her eyes are clear. Curious. Not accusing.

If we stayed, the hunters would follow. They always do.

But in this field, with the sun warm and her heartbeat steady, the world feels briefly paused.

“We will stay,” I say at last. “When there is nowhere left for them to reach.”

“That sounds almost hopeful.”

“It is practical.”

She turns fully then, kneeling in front of me, brushing a stray petal from my shoulder.

“You’re allowed to want things, you know.”

“I want you alive.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” I reply evenly, “you continue to travel with me.”

As if we have all the time in the world.

Her hand finds mine in the grass. Her pulse is warm against my palm.

“Ready?” she asks eventually.

“Not yet,” I say.

She arches a brow.

“We have five more minutes,” I clarify.