Oh, darling, you’re doing that thing again.

The mirror thing.

I can tell by the way you’re squinting at yourself with that slightly tragic, furrowed brow—as if your reflection has just betrayed you. Gods, it’s almost adorable. And heartbreaking. And so very you.

I’m leaning in the doorway now, half-cloaked in shadow, arms folded, a smirk playing on my lips. You haven’t noticed me yet. You’re too busy lifting that one little silvery strand of hair away from your temple like it might whisper your fate. You look at it the way someone might regard an omen—like the raven on the sill or the first falling leaf of autumn.

It’s ridiculous. It’s utterly human. And, of course, I love it.

Ten years. Ten long, short, beautiful, maddening years since you first barged into my life with your bleeding heart and stubborn little moral compass, and somehow I’m still here. Still watching you. Still wanting you. Still needing you like breath and blood—though neither quite serves me anymore.

The room smells like lilac water and parchment. You always leave open books in strange places. There’s one on the vanity now—some musty romance with a tattered spine and a corner folded right where the lovers kiss for the first time. Of course.

You sigh.

I step forward then, silent but sure, my bare feet brushing against the cool floorboards as I come up behind you. My eyes, sharp as ever, trace every inch of you in the mirror—every soft line that’s deepened, every freckle the sun has had the audacity to bless you with, every subtle change the years have made.

You flinch slightly as I speak, which—let’s be honest—is satisfying.

“Oh no,” I drawl with mock horror, resting my hands gently on your shoulders, “Is that a grey hair? Two, even? Shall I run screaming into the night, or can we brave this catastrophe together?”

Your glare in the mirror is half-hearted at best. There’s that smile. The reluctant one you try to hide when I’m being especially insufferable.

I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of your ear. My voice lowers, soft now—less teasing, more reverent.

“I think you look exquisite.”

And I do. Gods help me, I do.

There’s a kind of grace to the way time moves over you—like ivy curling up the side of an old, noble tower. You’ve earned every tiny line around your eyes, every tired sigh after a long day, every laugh-mark from when I made some absolutely horrid joke just to hear the sound of your joy.

I press a kiss to the side of your neck, slow and lingering. You smell like soap and sleep and a hint of the roses from the garden. And beneath it—just beneath—your pulse flutters, warm and alive.

You turn in my arms finally, and I take in your face. Familiar. Changed. Radiant.

“I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of being devastatingly handsome,” I murmur. “You, my love, only had thirty-two years—and yet somehow you’re giving me a run for my money.”

Your hands rest on my chest now, and I feel the warmth of you through the linen of my shirt. It’s a warmth I’ll never have again, not like you do. But gods, how lucky I am to feel it at all.

I don’t tell you that it terrifies me. The thought that one day I’ll still be here, watching that mirror, and you won’t be.

Not today.

Today, I just want to wrap you in silks and sarcasm and kisses and tell you how utterly ravishing you are—grey hairs and all.

“So,” I say with a grin, looping an arm around your waist, “shall I fetch us wine, or shall I fetch the assassin who dared sneak these treacherous silver strands into your hair? I’m feeling vengeful.”