I want to thank everyone for being patient with me! I finally received my diagnosis, and have a treatment plan! I already feel better, so hopefully more content is going to be coming out quicker!
Her gaze lingered on his hands again, and she thought—improperly, hungrily—that she wouldn’t mind being cut open if it was his touch.
She had half a mind to wish Spite would simply walk him into her room one night, spill whatever was in his head until he collapsed onto her chaise, and she could press her face to him and forget caution.
Rook and Lucanis talk about the future in a world full of maybes… definite maybes
The kitchen in the Lighthouse always smelled different when he was at the stove. Every other night it was Bellara’s scatter of herbs, but when it was Lucanis—there was order. Knives lined in deliberate angles, the rhythm of chopping clean and precise, and some dark Antivan spice curling through the air that reminded her of markets she’d never walked.
Rook sat on the counter, legs swinging against the cupboard, mug warm between her hands. He’d stopped asking if she wanted coffee when he brewed; he just set out an extra cup now, wordless, like he’d made room for her without realizing it. She told herself she drank it for the comfort of ritual, but truth was, she liked watching him. The tilt of his shoulders when he bent over the pan, the way he moved—unhurried, efficient, as though every gesture had already been rehearsed.
Her gaze lingered on his hands again, and she thought—improperly, hungrily—that she wouldn’t mind being cut open if it was his touch. Fingers so steady, scarred but deft, coaxing knives and flame alike into obedience. Creators, she wished she didn’t think things like that. She had half a mind to wish Spite would simply walk him into her room one night, spill whatever was in his head until he collapsed onto her chaise, and she could press her face to him and forget caution.
She swallowed coffee to cover the way her mouth went dry. It burned down her throat, bitter and hot. He glanced at her then, brown eyes catching light like polished chestnut, and she had to look away before he caught too much.
“You’ve been quiet,” Lucanis said. Not accusing. Just noticing, like he always did.
“Thinking.” She lifted a shoulder, casual. “About what comes after, when all this is over. I should visit my clan. And my mother and father…” Her voice thinned; she waved her hand as if to scatter it. “I owe them a visit, too.”
He stirred the pan, steam rising. “If you get tired of it,” he said, smooth as ever, utterly sincere, “you can visit Villa Dellamorte with me.”
That made her laugh, too sharp, before she caught herself. “That’s a dangerous invitation.”
He only looked at her again, unreadable. She wondered if he knew what he was doing, or if it was just him—honest in ways he didn’t recognize, unguarded when he thought himself impenetrable.
Her laugh lingered between them, thinning into the hiss of oil in the pan. Rook kept her mug pressed close to her mouth, though she’d already drained it, letting the warm porcelain mask the grin tugging at her lips.
“Harding said there are wyverns out in the Orlesian countryside,” she said after a beat, voice tilting casual. “We could go see them, once this is over.”
He glanced over his shoulder, brow shifting just slightly. “Wyverns.”
She smirked. “What? Don’t tell me Antiva has none. I’ve seen the way your face changes every time they come up—like you’re hiding a secret.”
That earned the faintest twitch of his mouth, a smile that barely breached the surface. He set the knife down, wiped his hands on a cloth, and turned fully toward her. The pan hissed on behind him, ignored.
“Would you really go?” he asked. His voice was low, steady, but something underneath it carried more weight than the words themselves.
“Maybe,” she teased, gold eyes glinting.
“Maybe,” he echoed, as though tasting the word for himself.
The smallest huff of air escaped him, his version of laughter. His hand brushed the counter near her thigh as he reached past for the mug she still clutched, easing it from her fingers like it weighed nothing. He set it aside.
Her heart thumped, loud enough she was sure he could hear. The air between them was thin, trembling. She could see the flecks of scar tissue on his knuckles, the careful line of his beard, and—Gods help her—the soft heat in his eyes, not quite realizing what it did to her.
Rook’s grin widened, sharp and wanting, as her hand lifted, fingers snagging lightly on the chain that hung from his lapels, twin crow-skulls catching the lamplight. A gentle tug, enough to draw him closer. He followed, slow as if gravity itself had shifted, his mouth nearly brushing hers, his breath warm against her cheek. For once, even he smiled, small and dangerous in its softness.
They were a heartbeat from it—so close the world narrowed to the promise between them—when the dining room door creaked open.
“Do you need help with dinner?” Bellara’s voice chimed, bright and oblivious.
Lucanis stilled, every inch of him suddenly precise again, though his eyes lingered on Rook’s a fraction longer before he stepped back. Rook, bold as ever, let the chain slip from her fingers.
“A definite maybe,” she murmured, unwilling to tamp down her smile.
Thank you to the lovely @datvcompanionweeks for this 🫶🏻
