"Truth be told, losing my home has taken its toll upon me, in ways both seen and unseen."
Archbishop Lorenzo, Date Unknown.
After finishing dinner with Camila and Ma'am Gabriela, Francis bid them farewell and tried to make his way to test his ruby ring once more. No such luck—Camila grabbed his hand, her eyes wide with insistence, and urged him to read for her.
Her mother suggested the books her older brother had left behind before being picked up by the Royal Navy. Camila dismissed them almost immediately—perhaps a painful reminder, perhaps a desire for a few private moments with her betrothed. Francis glanced at her pleading gaze and sighed inwardly.
"You make it really hard to refuse. Sure, let's go," he said, giving in. Camila's face lit up with approval, while her mother arched an eyebrow, silently judging his predictability.
Minutes later, they arrived at his house in haste, as if the books might be swept away by a sudden storm.
Camila immediately flopped onto the small bed, her knee-high red dress fluttering slightly as she settled.
Francis reached for a book, but she cut him off with a calm, deliberate, "Let's finish the romance novel," her slight smirk betraying more than her words.
He had a vague sense of her intention but agreed anyway—not that he minded her plan.
He grabbed the book and sat beside her. The warm air pressed against the small room, making it rather uncomfortable. Francis moved toward the window to open it, only to be stopped.
"I like it warm," Camila said, a playful edge to her voice.
Francis didn't object and opened the book, picking up where they had left off in the seventh chapter.
Luckily, the chapter was mild in atmosphere, detailing the temporary separation of the two main characters and the man's preparations for joining the army.
"People had to go to war on land before the Cataclysm?" Camila asked, struggling to envision it.
My dear Camila, You act like it was a thousand years ago rather than a hundred.
"Yeah. Back then, we had access to far more than islands. But you probably already know that," Francis replied with a gentle smile.
"I do, but it's still hard to imagine," she admitted.
Again, I should stop underestimating people.
Francis nodded and continued reading.
Hours slipped by unnoticed, neither willing to break the immersion as the novel's plot thickened. Camila perched on her calves in anticipation, her position prompted Francis to sneak glances every few minutes. She likely noticed, too, subtly adjusting her posture in response.
In a rare moment of bravery, Francis let his hand rest on her while reading. He only lifted it briefly to turn the pages, but it instinctively returned, as if drawn by habit. Camila, naturally, made no objection, her slight shifts accommodating his presence without a word.
Time continued slipping away as the chapters turned, the story gradually drifting into more emotional territory. With each word, the tension of the novel mirrored theirs. As the scenes unfolded, Francis and Camila became keenly aware of one another—glances lingering, breathing subtly shifting. When their eyes met, he saw the same unspoken emotions reflected in her gaze.
Francis lingered a moment too long, unable to tear his gaze from her. Her deep brown eyes, framed by thick lashes and brows, seemed to pull him in. Freckles speckled her high cheeks and the slope of her upturned nose, and the strands of her jet-black hair falling across her face made her look impossibly captivating. The warmth of the room, the faint scent of the books around them, even the steady rhythm of her breathing—it all wrapped around him, pinning him in place.
He tried to summon the courage to act, to close the small distance between them, but every time he moved a fraction closer, the intensity of her stare left him frozen. His pulse thrummed in his ears, and his hands felt suddenly too heavy to lift. With a forced casualness, he looked away, feigning disinterest, even if every fiber in him craved otherwise.
Camila, evidently tired of his hesitation, shifted slightly. Before he could react, she was there, closing the gap in a heartbeat. Her hands found his cheeks, and she pressed her lips to his in a kiss utterly unannounced.
Francis gasped, caught somewhere between surprise and the weight of long-suppressed emotions. When she finally pulled back, just enough for air, her hair had fallen loose across her face, and her eyes—so impossibly charming—seemed to want something he wasn't prepared to address just yet.
"I'm tired of waiting," she whispered.
***
At the first light of dawn, Francis opened his eyes, greeted for once not by incoherent nightmares but by a rare, serene quiet.
He felt a strange mixture of lightness and heaviness. The lightness came first—realizing he'd dozed off awkwardly, still wearing most of yesterday's clothes. The heaviness followed quickly, awareness settling on Camila lying next to him, having apparently fallen asleep against him sometime during the night. Her head rested on his shoulder, her right leg tucked comfortably beside him, and the brush of her hair against his arm pressed into his awareness more insistently than he liked to admit.
A wave of embarrassment swept over him as his mind replayed the previous night. In the heat of the moment, it had all seemed natural—reading, talking, drifting closer—but now… reality was harder to stomach.
If he was honest, neither of them had known precisely how to navigate any of it. But that was the point, wasn't it? Learning together, discovering one another's pace, step by tentative step. And for now, that thought carried a quiet reassurance.
A part of him wanted to get up, to test the ruby ring once more. But a stronger, more indulgent part of him resisted. He stayed still, letting the moment linger, savoring Camila's presence a while longer.
His patience paid off. Camila stirred, shifting slightly before her eyes fluttered open and met his. For a moment, neither spoke. Then her ears reddened so quickly he almost laughed.
"Well… this is embarrassing," she murmured.
"Makes two of us," Francis replied, his grin as sheepish as he felt.
But the warmth in his chest didn't last long. A sudden realization hit him—sharp enough to make his stomach drop.
"Wait. Doesn't this count as… immoral?"
Camila blinked once, then burst into a light, incredulous laugh. "Francis. The Church changed the definition decades ago. It doesn't apply to people who are betrothed."
"Why didn't I know that?" he asked, genuinely baffled.
"Because you're not devout enough," she said, giving his arm a light slap. He responded by turning sideways and pulling her into a quick, affectionate hug. The bed was cramped and hardly built for two, but the awkward angles didn't bother him. Judging by her relaxed posture, it didn't bother her either.
"Sorry," he murmured. "I'll be getting a new bed today."
"Oh, I can already imagine the level of comfort that would offer," she said with a smirk far too satisfied for his comfort.
"I should stop reading for you," he muttered. "You're using your expanding vocabulary solely to embarrass me."
Her smirk only deepened.
Still tangled together in the cramped bed, Francis let his thoughts drift. "Speaking of small spaces," he said quietly, "do you think my house would be enough once we're married?"
Camila shot him a glare sharp enough to make him flinch.
"Oh, please, Francis." She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, exasperation softening into something fond. "I'd live with you in a barrel. Of course it is. I don't need much space—and neither do you. That's what the outside is for anyway."
By the time she finished, something loosened in his chest. He hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding that question. The relief hit so quickly he tightened his arms around her without thinking.
Camila smiled—small, warm, sympathetic. "You worry too much," she whispered.
Her smile lingered, soft and reassuring. Francis held her a moment longer before murmuring, almost to himself, "Just trying to take care of the little I have, I guess."
The words slipped out heavier than he meant them, weighted with insecurities he'd tried to keep buried.
Camila's expression shifted—hurt flickering for a heartbeat, then something gentler. She didn't answer. Instead, she slid a hand up to his cheek and pressed her forehead to his, undoubtedly intending to allow him the dignity of expressing vulnerability without having it questioned.
Some minutes later, Camila shifted and sighed. "Mass will begin soon." She pressed a brief, warm kiss to his cheek before slipping out of his arms. She stood, stretching lightly before bending to gather her belongings.
Francis swallowed, staring at the ceiling to compose himself.
Perhaps sailing is a bad idea after all.