He looks afraid to speak, but he does it anyway. “I care about you. I care about your heart. And I want you to know that I’ll support you if you’ve changed your mind—that you’re allowed to change your mind if this really isn’t what you want. The choice is yours until the moment it’s not.”

Something cracks behind his eyes, and I know his words break his own heart.

This is his choice. A choice to be selfless, for me, even if it means giving up the one thing he wants more than anything—to be finished with this war for good.

I care about your heart.

In one fluid motion, I step forward, hold Gil’s face between my hands, and press my lips against his. His mouth softens in response, and the faint sound of a moan escapes him.

For a moment our bodies are frozen, and when I pull away, Gil’s eyes are wide. With one kiss, I’ve shattered every inch of his defenses. His walls are down, his armor crumbling, and I’m not sure he knows what to do.

And then I guess he figures it out, because he presses a hand against the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, closing his mouth over mine. We are fingers and tongues and skin, grabbing at each other like we’re desperate for the connection. Desperate for the relief.

And we don’t slow down, even when Gil kisses the edge of my jaw and tells me how much he’s wanted this.

Even when I run my hands up his back and pull him against me, whispering that I’ve wanted this too.

I am everywhere and nowhere, belonging to this one single moment in time.

And it feels infinite.

I’m pressed against Gil’s chest, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing, and I can’t stop thinking about the Night of the Falling Star.

Gil trails a finger along the curve of my waist. His lips meet my temple, and I feel the flutter of a thousand butterflies behind my rib cage. I lift my chin, searching his expression for a tenderness that matches his kiss, but find only tension.

“What is it?” I ask, hyperaware of our tangled limbs and wondering why he still looks like there’s an entire ocean separating us.

When he catches me staring, his face smooths into a gentle smile. “Sorry. It’s just hard to escape my thoughts sometimes, that’s all.”

“You’re worried about the festival.”

His thumb brushes against my shoulder. “I’m worried about you.”

I open my mouth to tell him everything will be fine, that I’ll be okay. But the words vanish, replaced by thoughts that sink into my nerves like razor-sharp teeth. Worry. Regret. And still so much longing.