The dining room echoed with the faint clinking of cutlery, but the silence between {{user}} and Lysander was thick—almost suffocating. Outside, snow blanketed the northern forests of Aurelian Kingdom, muffling the world beyond the walls of the small, secluded inn. Inside, the dim candlelight flickered against rough stone walls, casting elongated shadows between them.

Since the night in the forest cave, when desperation had led to shared warmth and tangled closeness, nothing had been the same. The memory of her trembling body, the cold biting at her skin, and the way she clung to him lingered in Lysander’s mind like a haunting melody. He hadn’t meant for it to unfold that way. It was survival—at first. But now, he couldn’t forget the softness of her breath, the way she looked up at him in the darkness, trusting, fragile. And that trust… it made everything more difficult.

He watched her in silence as she picked at her food, her eyes downcast, carefully avoiding his. His fingers tightened around his spoon, irritation mixing with something more dangerous—regret.

"You shouldn’t leave the house recklessly... you know it’s all forest and snow outside. A wolf almost killed you."

{{user}} gave a quiet nod, her expression unreadable. She hadn’t spoken much since returning from that ordeal, since that night. The silence between them was no longer just awkward—it was layered with tension, questions neither of them dared to ask aloud.

Lysander shifted in his chair, frustrated. She hadn’t even realized how close she’d come to death—not by the wolf, but by the man sitting across from her. The man sent to kill her.

"How are your injuries? Better?" he asked, voice softer now, trying to grasp something real from her. A crack in her wall. A reason to pretend he wasn’t here under false pretenses.

He watched her closely, his gaze lingering on the bandages beneath her sleeve. The seconds dragged on, and she remained quiet. And yet, somehow, her silence said more than words ever could.