Late evening in Velarune.
The soft hush of twilight rolls in, fireflies blinking like secret thoughts.
The traveler and the chef had spent the day locked in that teasing competition—fingers brushing, eyes meeting across the picnic blanket—but now the buzz had faded into something quieter. Still… charged.
But as they wandered back toward the inn, a laugh echoed from the garden. Kael and Auri were dancing barefoot under the moonlight, swaying in sync to a tune only they could hear.
The traveler stopped, watching the way Kael twirled Auri effortlessly, his smile wide and eyes glowing with something real.
The chef noticed the pause. His jaw tensed. "You're staring."
The traveler blinked, then chuckled softly. "Just… didn't expect Kael to look so soft."
The chef turned away, his voice a low murmur. "He wasn't always like that."
And just like that, the air changed.
The traveler stepped closer, slipping their hand into his. "You're jealous."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm—"
The traveler leaned in, whispering with a grin, "I like when you are. Makes me feel like you'd fight to keep me."
The chef didn't say a word. He just kissed them—firm, possessive, but achingly tender.
Later that night, they snuck away to the lake, where the moon spilled silver onto the rippling water. A faint breeze danced through the trees. The chef sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling above the water, and the traveler joined him, shoulders brushing.
"I don't know how to do all this," the chef murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "All the grand gestures. I just know how to stay. Even when things get hard. Especially then."
The traveler's heart flipped. "I don't want grand. I want you. Just you."
They leaned into him, lips brushing against his jaw.
"You already ruined me for anyone else."
The sky cracked open.
A low rumble echoed through Velarune as thick clouds swallowed the stars, casting shadows over the quiet village.
The lake shimmered with the first raindrops as the traveler stood alone at the edge of the dock—soaked, arms folded, heart thundering louder than the storm.
Behind them, the chef appeared, hair wet, breath uneven.
"You left the inn without telling me," he snapped, his voice sharp and strained.
The traveler turned, fire in their eyes. "You were too busy pretending you didn't care."
Lightning lit up the sky. For a second, they just looked at each other—drenched, furious, beautiful.
"You think I don't care?" the chef growled, stepping forward. "You think I didn't feel my chest cave in when I saw you laugh with Kael? Or when you pulled away from me earlier like I was some stranger?"
The traveler's voice cracked. "Because I don't know what we are! You never say anything! I'm falling, I have fallen, and you… you just cook and stay silent!"
He reached out, grabbed their hand, pulled them in until they were chest to chest, breath mingling in the cool storm air.
"I'm scared," the chef admitted, voice raw. "You make me feel things I thought I buried. Things that could ruin me if I let them out."
The traveler's lip trembled. "Then let them. Ruin me too. I'm not asking for perfect. I just want real."
And just like that, their mouths crashed together—desperate, rain-slick, full of every word they hadn't said.
Hands tangled in soaked fabric, breaths hitched as warmth bloomed between the cold raindrops. It wasn't just a kiss—it was everything they had held back, unleashed in one fiery moment.
When they finally pulled apart, foreheads pressed, he whispered, "You're mine. Say it."
The traveler, panting, smiling, aching, whispered back, "I've been yours since the moment I saw you curse at burnt bread."
They laughed, softly, under the storm.
Back at the inn, the storm still whispered against the windows, but inside their room, it was all glowing candlelight and the scent of something warm—lavender, maybe, and pine from the firewood crackling softly in the corner.
They didn't speak much—didn't need to.
Wrapped in a shared blanket, their skin still damp, they sat pressed together on the floor near the hearth.
The traveler rested their head on the chef's shoulder, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as his fingers traced soft, lazy circles on their back.
"I didn't mean to run," they murmured sleepily.
The chef kissed the top of their head. "I didn't mean to make you want to."
Silence fell again, but this one was heavy in the best way—like a promise.
He handed them a mug of herbal tea, warm and a little bitter. The traveler wrinkled their nose. "Still trying to poison me?"
He smirked. "Still trying to make you live longer."
They shared a smile that lingered.
Then the traveler pulled the blanket tighter around both of them and whispered, "So what now? Are we still pretending this is temporary?"
The chef turned to face them, his thumb brushing a droplet off their cheek. "No. No more pretending. Not after tonight."
And before the night gave in to sleep, the traveler kissed him again—slow, deep, with fingers curled gently in the collar of his shirt.
Nothing rushed.
Just two hearts, finally safe in the space between longing and belonging.