"So, we’re not going to talk about it?" Skjor’s voice was low, almost lost beneath the steady sound of him wiping down his sword. He stared down at the clean steel, dragging the rag along its edge as if trying to wipe away more than just blood.

He couldn't bring himself to look up, couldn't face the truth in his own reflection—or in {{user}}'s eyes. He thought he could keep control, thought he could bury whatever was burning inside him, but last night had proven otherwise.

Maybe {{user}} wasn't ready for what it had become. Maybe he wasn't, either, but... he knew that brief time together under the moonlight wasn't enough. Not for him.