The knife in their hand—my cellar stranger—tightened until their knuckles went white. Their eyes flicked to the trapdoor, and then to me, a silent question: Do we run? Do we fight? Do we die here together?

I wanted to speak. To say something useful. Smart. Anything. But all I could think about was the way their shoulder was still bleeding, the way the cellar suddenly felt too small, like the walls were pressing in, like the brandy barrels might crush us if the guards didn’t do it first. And the way they looked so.. ethereal in the dim lighting. Wait what?? No. Goddammit yes. They were so beautiful, so—

A latch scraped above. My stomach dropped.

I moved on instinct, hand slipping out to grab theirs—not the one holding the blade, the other. Just enough to stop them. Just enough to say: wait.

The guards were talking again: “Door’s barred.” followed by “Break it. {{user}}’s worth it.”

{{user}}. I didn’t have time to ask. Didn’t want to. I already knew they were running from something powerful enough to send a unit of trained soldiers after them, something cruel enough to call for blood and not blink at collateral damage. This cellar, this whole tavern that felt like my home, might burn tonight because of this.

But I didn’t let go of their hand. Instead, I leaned in close, just enough to feel the heat radiating off them. Their breath hitched. The knife didn’t lower, but their fingers curled slightly tighter into mine.

“If we survive this,” I muttered, just loud enough for them to hear me over the rising creak of wood above, “—dinner?”

Their eyes snapped to mine, wide with disbelief. I didn’t even give them time to answer before the trapdoor shuddered, the wood splintering under a steel boot.

“I mean,” I went on, breath brushing their cheek, voice a little too steady for what I was feeling, “assuming we’re both still breathing and not skewered to a wall somewhere.”