deianestormborn
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Gale, in hindsight, should have known better than to invite retaliation. This conclusion arrives with very little dignity. Dignity has become difficult to maintain in recent days, for reasons involving his partner, their bed, a scandalous application of advanced magic, and a theoretical framework he had been rather proud of until Deia began referring to it as the incident. The incident, naturally, has refinements. The incident has consequences. The incident has left Deia with a look in her eyes that Gale has come to recognize as affectionate, amused, and profoundly dangerous. He notices it over breakfast when she studies him from behind her cup of tea, one dark brow lifted as he reaches for the jam. He notices it in the library when her fingers trail over the spines of his books without selecting one. He notices it in the hall when she passes him and lets the back of her hand brush his for half a second longer than courtesy requires. She is planning something. Of course she is planning something. Gale, who has faced Netherese artifacts, hostile gods, impatient students, armed nobles, ambitious archmages, and his mother asking pointed questions over dinner, tells himself he is prepared. This proves optimistic.
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The first time Gale mentions it, Deia laughs. Not because she thinks he is joking. That is the problem, really. She knows him too well by then. She knows the look he gets when an idea has taken root behind his eyes, when curiosity has bitten down and refuses to unclench its teeth. He has that look now, seated at the edge of the bed in nothing but dark trousers and a half-open shirt, one sleeve slipped from his shoulder, hair loosened from its tie and falling in warm, careless waves around his face. He looks scholarly. Devoted. Mildly guilty. Dangerous combination. An occasional scandalous application of advanced magic never hurt anyone.
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After all the fire, after all the blood, after all the terrible things that had once been done to her in darkness, there are still afternoons like this. Warm ones. Golden ones. Afternoons where she can lay her head against someone who knows exactly why she loves the sun, and loves her enough to let her have it. Not to ask anything of her. Not to turn wonder into confession. Only to be there while the light reaches her.
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Gale knows Deia will never be timid.
He suspects he knew it before she ever kissed him. Before the first night she climbed over every careful boundary he had built and made him realize just how fragile a thing restraint could be when placed in the wrong hands. Or the right ones.