Dinner with the Dead. That was what Hermione had called it, voice dry with that particular shade of humour only she could manage, brittle but fond, as she stood in front of Ginny with her coat half-buttoned and her hands busy fastening the small clasp just beneath her collar.
Her fingers had worked deftly, her belly round and full beneath the folds of deep green wool, the faintest shimmer of sweat on her brow from the exertion of getting ready while the baby pressed against her ribs. She had kissed Ginny's cheek with a softness that made Ginny's throat ache and whispered words that rang in her mind even now, words wrapped in equal parts warning and mischief. Do not drink too much wine. Do not stare too long at the photographers. Remember to breathe. Remember who you are, or at least who they think you are. The words had tasted like ritual. Ginny had nodded even though her heart had begun to race the moment Hermione had said the name of the event aloud.
It was an annual affair, a gala cloaked in old money and older grief, some charity formed in the slow, aching aftermath of the war, an excuse for those who had survived with titles and vaults intact to parade their virtue in glittering halls beneath towering chandeliers.
The rich gathered in marble rooms lined with ancient portraits of grim-faced ancestors, raising crystal glasses to the lost and the fallen while they exchanged empty condolences and richer contracts beneath the table. No one liked to call it by its true name, but everyone came. It was a performance, a game, a battlefield where influence was measured not in spells but in smiles and silence.
Hermione had told her that she and Blaise had attended together for five consecutive years, each time with Ginny poised on his arm like a queen whose crown weighed heavier than it looked, her eyes sharp, her smile sharper. Hermione had called her untouchable, the kind of woman who commanded a room with a single glance.
The thought unsettled Ginny more than she could say. It did not match the hollow ache in her chest, the crawling sense of unfamiliarity beneath her skin. But she had said nothing. She had smiled and nodded and let Hermione kiss her cheek again, pretending it was enough.
Now she stood alone in their suite, framed by the tall mirror that gleamed like a pool of cold water against the dark panelled walls. The light was soft, golden from the sconces, but it did nothing to warm her reflection. Ginny stared at the woman in the mirror and barely recognised the face that stared back. She had been transformed. Not simply dressed, but sculpted.
The gown she wore clung to her like liquid shadow, black and gleaming, cut to reveal just enough skin to make the eye linger but not enough to seem vulgar. It was a statement, a weapon, a second skin she had not chosen but had been made to wear. Her hair had been styled into soft, deliberate waves that framed her face with a kind of effortless precision that felt anything but natural.
Her lips were painted deep crimson, a shade Blaise had chosen without hesitation earlier that evening, the same shade he had insisted made her look powerful, desired, untouchable. Every inch of her body had been arranged, constructed, shaped to fit an image that felt as distant from her as a painting in a gallery.
She told herself it was fine. That it was only one night. That she could wear the mask, could play the part they expected. The words rang hollow even in her own mind, but she repeated them anyway, like a mantra to ward off the sick twist in her stomach. If she smiled enough, if she moved with the same grace they remembered, no one would see how much of her had vanished. No one would know how lost she felt beneath the silk and shadow.
The thought tightened her throat. She looked down at her hands, at the thin rings that gleamed against her skin, one of them heavy with diamonds that seemed too sharp, too cold. Her fingers trembled, just slightly. She curled them into fists, hiding the tremor from herself, from the mirror, from anyone who might look too closely.
Behind her, the door creaked softly as it opened, and the faint scent of sandalwood and clean linen drifted through the room. Blaise had arrived. She did not need to turn to know it. The air always changed when he entered, as if the room bent itself to accommodate him. His footsteps were measured, unhurried, a predator's pace rather than a lover's.
He said nothing at first. She watched him in the glass as he approached, the lines of his suit dark and perfect, his tie knotted with ruthless precision. His eyes met hers in the mirror, dark and unreadable, and she felt her breath catch again.
He came to stand behind her, tall and still, the warmth of his presence pressing against her spine without touch. For a moment he simply looked at her, and she could feel the weight of his gaze tracing every line of her body, cataloguing every detail with possessive pride.
"You are perfect," he said at last, voice low and soft, the words sliding over her skin like silk. "You remember how to smile, yes?"
Ginny's mouth curved almost involuntarily, the muscle memory rising before thought. It felt brittle, too wide, but it held. "I remember."
"Good," he murmured, voice low and sure, a thread of command woven beneath the velvet tone as he shifted closer behind her, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, and before she could brace herself, she felt the slow deliberate brush of his lips against the edge of her hair, a fleeting ghost of a kiss that sent a shiver rolling down her spine, the kind of gesture meant to soothe and claim all at once. "Stay close to me tonight," he continued softly, each word sinking deeper into her skin than she wanted to admit. "Do not wander. They will want to devour you."
The words did not feel like a warning. They felt like a promise. A possessive oath that carried no room for argument, no edges soft enough to grasp, and though something cold and thin threaded through her chest, she said nothing. There was no room for refusal, no breath left in her lungs for protest. Her silence was acceptance. It had to be.
When they arrived, the shift in air and pressure left her momentarily weightless, that familiar disorienting pull of apparition dragging her forward in a shimmer of distorted light, her senses unraveling for a breathless second before the world snapped sharply back into place. The cold stone steps beneath her heels were the first thing she registered, the chill of the evening pressing against her bare shoulders before Blaise's warmth shielded her from it, and then came the onslaught.
Even before her eyes could adjust, the blinding white of camera flashes struck like lightning, stinging through her vision in rapid bursts, leaving the edges of her sight swimming. The noise rose swiftly after, a cacophony of shouted names and frantic questions that tangled together into a roar too loud to untangle, too fast to answer. The reporters surged as one, a sea of black coats and parchment-thin voices crashing forward with microphones and camera lenses sharp as blades, and Ginny stood frozen for one long breath, her throat tightening painfully as panic clawed its way upward.
But Blaise was already moving.
Before she could fully register her own fear, his hand had settled at her waist, firm and unyielding, fingers spreading just enough to remind her where she belonged, and the subtle pressure of his touch guided her forward through the storm of noise and light.
His other hand hovered close, ready to steady her if she faltered, and there was no hesitation in his stride, no falter in the way he moved as though he owned the space between them and the world. His grip curled tighter as they descended the steps, the silent message clear. No one would reach her without going through him first.
Smile. Breathe. Smile again.
The words flickered in her mind, a desperate mantra that felt thin and brittle beneath the weight of the eyes fixed on her. She summoned the curve of her mouth from muscle memory alone, a practiced expression that felt far too wide, far too hollow, but it held. Her breath came unevenly, shallow beneath the corseted pressure of her gown, but she forced the rhythm. Inhale, exhale, smile. Keep moving. Let him lead.
And all the while, Blaise remained close, his presence a shield and a chain both, unyielding and certain, the perfect image of a man who had done this so many times that the performance no longer touched him. He smiled for the cameras, but his eyes remained fixed on her, sharp and watchful, as though he alone could sense the trembling beneath her painted skin.
Smile. Breathe. Smile again.
And so she did.
She followed his lead without hesitation because there was nothing else she could do, no ground beneath her feet that did not belong to this carefully choreographed world, no space that did not feel as though he had already mapped it for her long before she arrived. The practiced curve of her lips lifted as if on command, though it felt strange, too wide, the muscles beneath her skin stretching into something she no longer recognised, as if the woman wearing this smile belonged to a life she could not touch.
They moved together through the gauntlet of flashing lights and shouted names with the unspoken coordination of dancers who had long since learned every precise step of the routine, their movements effortless and synchronized, though every inch of it felt foreign beneath her skin. The cameras strobed in relentless bursts, turning the world into a flickering nightmare of frozen images, each one capturing a version of her that did not feel real, a polished reflection of someone she no longer knew.
Ginny heard her own name called again and again, voices sharp and insistent rising above the roar, each syllable knotted with questions she could not answer. They wanted to know about her marriage, about her future. Were they happy? Was she well?
But the words blurred into a meaningless tide, a cacophony that barely registered beneath the steady hum of Blaise's presence beside her, the one constant in a world that had lost all clarity. His hand never strayed, his touch a constant weight at her waist, grounding her even as it bound her more tightly to the performance.
When they finally crossed the threshold into the grand ballroom, the shift was jarring, the air cooler and thinner, the light dim and brittle beneath towering chandeliers that cast sharp reflections onto polished marble floors. Above them, the glittering fixtures hung like frozen stars, indifferent and cold, their brilliance failing to warm the vast, echoing space.
The sea of dark robes and jeweled gowns spread before her in a shimmering tide, faces moving and blending into one another, a parade of people she could not name yet who seemed to know her far too well. Their eyes followed her with a familiarity that sent a chill through her bones, as if they had all memorized a version of her she no longer carried within herself.
Blaise guided her through it all with the ease of a man who had lived within these walls for years, his voice low and calm whenever introductions were required, each word smooth and deliberate, delivered with the quiet authority of someone who was never uncertain. His arm never shifted, his presence wrapped around her like silk and iron both, and Ginny found herself leaning into it despite the knot tightening in her stomach.
Every smile she gave was for him, shaped by his subtle cues, her gaze lifting or lowering at the barest flicker of his fingers, every polite nod an echo of movements she had once known instinctively but now mimicked as if through a veil.
It felt endless.
Each moment stretched into the next with no sense of time, no escape from the constant press of gazes and voices, no breath that did not taste of performance and expectation. And through it all, Blaise remained at her side, unwavering, the shadow and architect of the woman she was meant to be.
By the time they finally returned to the manor, the glamour of the evening had peeled away from her skin in slow, invisible strips, leaving only a raw and aching fatigue that seemed to settle deep into her bones, heavier with each breath she took. The moment the cold air of the night released them and the familiar wards of their home closed once more around her, the exhaustion washed through her in a single crushing wave, pressing her down until her limbs felt too heavy to lift.
She did not resist as Blaise led her inside, his hand still resting at the small of her back, steady and certain, his pace matching hers as her steps grew slower, the silken glide of her gown dragging faintly against the marble with every reluctant movement. The weight of the evening hung from her like an anchor, invisible yet inescapable, every false smile and polite nod clinging to her skin like cobwebs she could not shake loose.
The suite was warm when they entered, its quiet opulence wrapping around her like a velvet cocoon, too soft, too close, too knowing. The heavy doors closed behind them with a muted click that seemed to echo louder in her mind than it had any right to, shutting out the world beyond, sealing her inside the space that felt both sanctuary and cage.
Her breath shuddered in her chest as she stood there for a moment, the silence ringing in her ears after the relentless noise of the gala, and when her legs finally moved, they did so without thought, her body caught in the familiar rhythm of performance even now.
She drifted toward the vanity with a kind of numb grace, her limbs moving as though through water, her reflection drawing her in like a mirror she could not help but face. Without thinking, she lowered herself onto the cushioned stool, her spine straightening automatically, her chin lifting in the practiced way it had done all night.
The woman in the glass looked back at her with tired eyes and painted lips, a stranger wrapped in silk and shadow, her skin gleaming faintly beneath the soft golden light. She blinked once, twice, her gaze slipping out of focus. Her shoulders sagged slightly before she caught herself, lifting them once more out of stubborn pride.
Behind her, Blaise stood in silence, his gaze lingering on her reflection with a softness that caught her off guard, a warmth in his eyes that ached to look at, one she did not know how to accept or refuse. The air between them hummed with the intimacy of the moment, too quiet, too close.
Without a word, he reached for the silver brush resting on the vanity, his movements unhurried, deliberate, as though this too were part of the night's ritual, a step as vital as the smile she had worn for the cameras. His fingers found her hair first, long and slow as they threaded through the thick waves, testing the weight of it in his hands with a reverence that stole the breath from her lungs. The faint pull at her scalp sent a shiver down her spine, a slow unraveling that she could not resist.
Then he began to brush.
The first stroke was long and even, the bristles dragging smoothly from crown to tip with a gentleness that made her throat tighten. Another stroke followed, then another, each one erasing a little more of the tension coiled beneath her skin, pulling it free in fragile threads that left her trembling with relief she did not dare voice. The simple intimacy of it was so unexpected, so achingly tender, that it left her sitting utterly still, afraid to move, afraid to break whatever fragile spell had fallen over them.
"You did well," Blaise murmured, his voice low and close, each word vibrating against the shell of her ear. "You were exquisite."
A shaky breath escaped her lips before she could stop it, her eyes fluttering closed against the warmth that swelled in her chest, a warmth that threatened to undo her completely. The brush continued its slow rhythm, the sound of it soft as a heartbeat in the quiet room, a steady, hypnotic pulse that lulled her deeper into the moment.
Then his voice came again, lower still, the words spoken in Italian now, curling around her like silk, wrapping her in their quiet, dangerous promise, sinking deep into the marrow of her bones. "Tu sei mia," he whispered, the words thick with possession and devotion, his breath a phantom touch against her ear. "Anche ora. Anche così."
You are mine. Even now. Even like this.
The words settled inside her with the weight of inevitability, a promise and a possession all at once, seeping into her blood, into her bones, into the very breath she could no longer steady.
She said nothing. There was nothing left to say. She simply sat there, her hands resting limp in her lap, her throat too tight to speak, her heart pounding painfully against her ribs as tears pricked behind her eyes, hot and helpless, caught between the truth of her exhaustion and the terrifying comfort of being held so close.
And still, the brush moved through her hair, long, slow strokes in endless, silent devotion, as if he would never stop, as if this small act of care was both penance and claim, as if through it he could remind her of who she was meant to be.
She looked him at the mirror. The way he was so gentle with her. It was absolutely stunning.She sat still beneath his touch, the brush moving in slow, hypnotic strokes through her hair, the weight of his words lingering in the air between them, too heavy, too close, impossible to ignore.
The warmth of his breath against her skin had not faded, nor had the way her heart stumbled in her chest, though she forced her voice to steady as she spoke, needing to push back against the intensity that threatened to drown her. "Are you always this possessive?" she asked softly, her tone light but edged with something sharper, something curious, as though testing the boundaries of a cage she could not yet see.
Blaise's chuckle was low, dark, and entirely unrepentant. "Even more," he murmured, the brush pausing for a breathless moment before sliding once more through her hair with deliberate care.
She let out a faint, incredulous laugh, tilting her head slightly though not enough to dislodge his careful hand. "And I am tolerating that shit?" she asked, voice lilting with amusement, though beneath it a flicker of unease curled through her chest.
In an instant the air shifted, and before she could fully register the movement, his fingers twisted gently but firmly into the thick waves of her hair, gathering a fistful at the nape of her neck and pulling just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her gaze upward until her eyes locked with his. The breath caught in her throat as she stared up at him, his dark gaze burning with an intensity that made her stomach twist.
"Oh, baby girl," he murmured, voice thick with velvet threat and affection so tangled it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. "If you only knew. You are usually dripping for me by the end of the night, begging me to come home and fuck you until you cannot remember your own name."
Her mouth fell open in a gasp, her cheeks flushing hot beneath the weight of his words. "Zabini," she hissed, voice sharp with shock and something else she could not name. "Too vulgar."
His smile in response was slow and wicked, a satisfied curve of his lips that made her pulse race faster despite herself. He said nothing further, letting the tension coil tighter between them before he released her hair with a lingering stroke, his fingers trailing down her neck with a softness that belied the steel beneath.
For a long moment they simply looked at each other, the silence between them charged and heavy, until finally Blaise's voice came again, softer now, though no less possessive. "Would you like me to sleep in the guestroom tonight?"
Ginny hesitated, her heart still pounding, her mind scrambling to regain control of the moment. "Please," she said finally, her voice smaller than she intended. Then, after a breath, she added, "Can you tell the elves to sleep with me tonight?"
For the first time, something shifted in his expression, a flicker of hurt so sharp and raw it stole the breath from the room. His eyes betrayed him, the heartbreak laid bare for a single, unguarded second before he masked it beneath a careful smile that did not reach his gaze. "Of course, amore," he said softly, voice thick with the ache he refused to show. "Anything that you want."
She watched him closely, something tender and guilty flickering beneath her defiance, though she pushed it down. "You always agree with what I ask from you?" she asked, her voice lighter now, teasing as she sought to ease the sharpness of the moment.
His smile softened just slightly, though the ache in his eyes remained. "I drew the line when you asked for a cat," he said, voice warm with humour despite the weight in his chest. "But yes."
"As you should," she replied with a mischievous smirk, tilting her head with playful challenge.
Blaise leaned in then, slow and deliberate, pressing a kiss to her cheek with aching tenderness, his lips lingering for a breath longer than necessary as though imprinting the moment upon her skin. His fingers brushed down her arm in a gentle stroke that made her shiver despite herself.
"Goodnight, love," he whispered, voice soft as a vow, and then he straightened, lingering just long enough for her to feel the absence of his touch before turning away, leaving her alone in the quiet warmth of the room with only the steady ache of his presence still wrapped around her like a second skin.
She watched him go, her body held unnaturally still beneath the soft weight of his final kiss, the slow stroke of his hand down her arm lingering long after the last word had left his lips. Goodnight, love. The words echoed in her chest, quieter and quieter until the room swallowed them whole. Blaise crossed to the door with the same unhurried grace he had worn all night, though something in his shoulders looked tighter than before, a coiled tension he would never let her see. He opened the door and glanced back at her once, dark eyes shadowed beneath the soft glow of the sconces, his mouth pressing into a line he refused to break. Then he slipped out, the door closing with a soft click that left the space behind him feeling cavernous.
Ginny let out a breath she had not realised she was holding, her entire body sagging against the back of the chair as though every bone had gone loose, the silk of her gown a cold weight against her skin now that the performance was over. The elves arrived moments later, three small figures scurrying in with soft worried eyes and little blankets draped over their arms.
They clambered up onto the large bed without a word, their presence oddly comforting, a living thread of warmth in a room that still smelled faintly of Blaise's cologne and her own exhaustion. Without protest she rose, shedding the gown with trembling fingers, pulling a silk slip from the wardrobe with no memory of having chosen it before curling beneath the covers between the tiny bodies that pressed close, seeking comfort as much as offering it.
For a long time she lay there in the dark, the soft hum of their breathing the only sound. Her eyes remained open, fixed on the ceiling where shadows shifted slowly across the ornate moulding. Sleep would not come. Her mind was too full, too loud. Images of the gala flashed through her vision, faces blurred and hollow, voices sharp as knives. Blaise's voice still whispered in her ears. Tu sei mia . You are mine. Even now. Even like this.
With a shuddering breath she sat up, careful not to disturb the sleeping elves, her bare feet finding the cool floor with a faint hiss. The house was silent. The suite was silent. Her heart beat too fast, too loud. Without thinking, driven by something she could not name, Ginny padded softly across the room and opened the tall carved doors that led into what she now understood was their bedroom. Hers and Blaise's. A space too intimate, too sacred for a stranger to trespass, and yet here she was, heart pounding, hands cold.
The room was beautiful. Opulent without being garish, heavy with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood and something deeper beneath, the faint trace of two lives lived inside these walls. The bed was vast, draped in dark linens with the faint imprint of where Blaise had once lain, though the sheets were now smooth and cold. On the far side of the room stood a long vanity with a tall mirror, flanked by a wardrobe whose doors hung slightly ajar.
She hesitated at the threshold, her breath catching. Then, slowly, she stepped inside.
Her gaze landed first on the vanity. The surface gleamed beneath the soft glow of the bedside lamps, scattered with familiar objects that should have felt safe and comforting but instead looked foreign and strange beneath her searching eyes. And there, tucked into the corner of the mirror, half-hidden beneath the edge of the frame, was a single Polaroid photograph.
Her fingers moved before her mind could stop them, sliding the photo free with a breathless ache swelling in her throat. The image was raw and private. Herself, in bed, her hair tangled and wild, a soft white shirt hanging loose from her shoulders—his shirt, unmistakably his. Her face was bare, lips parted in a lazy smile meant only for the one behind the camera. The intimacy of it struck her like a blow. There was a date scrawled along the bottom edge in looping ink, a date that meant nothing to her now. Her hands trembled as she set it back, heart racing, her breath shallow and sharp.
She opened the nearest drawer, needing air, needing distraction, and there beneath a silver comb lay a folded scrap of parchment worn soft from touch. Without thinking, she unfolded it and stared down at the words in her own unmistakable handwriting, bold and fierce, curling across the page like a secret meant to be hidden. I would burn down the world if you asked me to. Just say the word. The paper shook in her grasp. Her mouth felt dry. She could not remember writing it. She could not imagine writing it. Yet here it was, kept close, as though Blaise read it every night before he slept.
Her breath caught on a sob she swallowed hard. Tears stung behind her eyes, but still she moved, her gaze dragging toward the small dish resting on the far corner of the vanity, its surface gleaming with cold silver. And there it lay. An engagement ring. Diamond bright, sharp as ice, the band delicate and worn from years of wear. Her own. There was no doubt. The sight of it stole what little breath remained in her lungs.
She reached for it with trembling fingers, lifting it gently between her thumb and forefinger, as though afraid it might burn her. The weight of it was unbearable, the proof of a love too deep, too fierce, too much to hold. A life she no longer recognised, a promise she had once made with her whole heart. And here it was, waiting for her return.
Her tears came then, slow and silent, slipping down her cheeks as she stared at the ring, at the photo, at the words she had once written with devotion burning in her blood. She pressed the ring back onto the dish with shaking hands, the metal cold against her skin, and stumbled back toward the door, her body trembling beneath the weight of too much memory, too little certainty.
In the silence of the suite, the bed waited for her, the tiny forms of the elves curled against the pillows, unaware of the storm churning inside her chest. She slipped beneath the covers once more, pulling them up to her chin, her breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. The Polaroid, the note, the ring—they circled through her mind like ghosts, taunting her with a life she no longer knew how to touch.
And somewhere in the shadows of her thoughts, Blaise's voice whispered still. You are mine. Even now. Even like this.
She could not bear it anymore. The weight of the evening, the ghosts in her mind, the ache beneath her skin had all pressed too heavily, until something inside her cracked wide open, raw and restless. No matter how tightly she curled beneath the covers, no matter how close the tiny warmth of the elves beside her, no matter how many times she tried to force her eyes shut and her breath to slow, it was useless. The suite felt too large, too cold, too hollow. And beneath it all was this growing, gnawing pull, deep and unspoken, a need that tightened in her chest until she thought it might strangle her.
She needed him.
She did not understand it, could not explain it, could not fight it, only knew that her body was already moving, her legs trembling as she slid out of bed, bare feet whispering against the floor as she crossed the room with slow, uncertain steps. Her pulse thundered in her ears, each beat louder than the last, her breath catching in her throat as her fingers curled around the cool brass of the door handle. She knew she should turn back. Knew that whatever this was, it was dangerous, was foolish, was far too much. But her heart had already made the choice her mind could not.
The door opened with a soft creak, the darkness of the corridor folding around her as she padded silently across it, the air colder here, the walls pressing in tighter with each step. When she reached their bedroom, the door was already half open, the faintest glow spilling from within, golden and soft against the shadows. She pushed it open fully and stood there frozen in the threshold, breathless.
Blaise was there, the sound of water still faint in the air, the scent of soap and skin and warmth curling toward her in soft invisible waves. He stood by the edge of the bed, towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water tracing slow paths down the smooth planes of his chest. His dark hair was damp, tousled and loose in a way that made her stomach twist. And he looked up the moment the door moved, sharp gaze softening instantly as it landed on her.
"What is wrong?" he asked, voice low with concern, stepping forward before she could speak. "What happened?"
Ginny opened her mouth, words caught beneath the rush of blood in her ears, her heart beating so hard it hurt. She swallowed once, her voice thin and hoarse when it finally emerged. "For some reason," she whispered, her throat tightening with the truth of it, "I need to sleep by your side."
For a long breath, he said nothing, only looked at her with something too deep to name, too soft to bear. Then, slowly, he smiled, a gentle curve of his mouth that undid her completely. Without a word, he moved to the bed, lifting the heavy cover with one graceful motion, a silent invitation, an answer she had not dared to hope for.
She climbed in slowly, limbs trembling, the silk of her slip cool against her skin, her breath shallow and quick as she slid beneath the warmth of the sheets. His scent wrapped around her instantly, familiar and heady and overwhelming, and when her body settled beside his, the ache in her chest eased just enough to breathe again.
"Why," she asked softly, her voice breaking with quiet wonder, "why can I not sleep without you?"
Blaise shifted closer, his arm curling around her with deliberate care, pulling her against the solid warmth of his chest, his voice a soft hum against her hair. "In seven years," he murmured, each word slow and measured, "we have only spent 34 nights apart."
"Why do you know the number?" she whispered, a shaky smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, needing the question to fill the heavy silence between them.
He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. "You go on your girls' trips without me," he said, voice rich with fondness. "You always send me messages to come to you in Paris because the mattress is too firm and you cannot sleep without me. You begged me to come to sleep with you when you were in Nicosia, Bali, Athens, Prague, Brussels, Berlin. You begged every time." He pressed a kiss to her hair, the touch so tender it made her breath hitch. "And baby, you beg too prettily."
"That does not sound like me," she whispered, though her voice held no real conviction, only the faintest thread of teasing disbelief.
He only smiled in response, said nothing, and drew her tighter into his embrace. The way their bodies fit together was too perfect, too seamless, as though some deeper truth beneath skin and bone had shaped them for this alone. His chest rose and fell in slow, steady rhythm, the heat of his skin seeping into hers, lulling her toward something softer than sleep.
For a long moment, she lay there in silence, her head resting against his chest, listening to the quiet beat of his heart. Then, softly, her voice rose again, thin and uncertain. "What happened in the 34 nights we were not together?"
His fingers trailed down to her waist, smoothing slowly over the faint scars that marked the softness of her stomach, the touch so gentle it made her breath catch. "We should not speak of sad things at the beginning," he said quietly, though there was no force in his refusal, only the weight of love and grief woven too tightly together.
"Was I hurt?" she asked, her voice smaller now, her heart already knowing the answer.
"Yes," he breathed against her hair, the word a soft ache.
She swallowed hard. "What was the reason?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he kissed the curve of her neck, lips lingering there as though the contact could shield her from the truth. His voice, when it came, was low and thick with something unspoken. "We tried to have a family," he whispered. "Many times. And as you can see, it was not a successful attempt."
Her breath stuttered, tears pricking behind her eyes. "Did I have a mis—"
"Enough of this," he cut in softly but firmly, his grip tightening around her, pulling her closer, holding her as if to keep her from falling apart. "Mia cara, enough, please. Let us just sleep."
And though the questions burned beneath her tongue, though her heart ached with the weight of all she did not know, she let herself fall into the safety of his embrace, her breath steadying against his skin, her body melting into the warmth of his hold.
Sleep came slowly, tangled in grief and comfort and a love she could not remember but felt in every beat of her heart.