Wren, an autumn dragon with a human form, is a guest at Duskhollow castle for the duration of the long winter. Prince Shyler, the eldest son and heir to the throne, befriended her in secret years earlier and has finally brought her to meet other hum...
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The kiss catches them both off guard.
Bundled up in furs and blankets as she is, Wren can do little more than sit in stunned silence at the sensation of Prince Shyler's mouth against her own. Her musing was not very accurate; while she can certainly tell he'd recently been drinking, she can't exactly taste it, nor does this ritual appear to have a practical application. But judging from the way her chest clenches in what she can only describe as delight and yearning, her human form seems to realize more than her head does.
By the time she struggles to free her hands, he's moved away from her and parted their lips. Recognizing the flighty look of shock on his face, she snatches his wrist before he can make a run for it.
He looks from the door to his arm and only briefly daring a peek at her face before his eyes flit away again. His feet dance on the spot with a surge of anxiety, his desire to flee made very obvious. Wren's stubbornness as well as her newly discovered fascination with touching him intimately win the silent battle. She tugs his arm firmly but questioningly. He folds in on himself, his resistance collapsing like a castle of cards, letting himself be led to her side and sitting on the edge of the mattress.
"Please don't leave," she begs him in a strange and breathless voice he barely recognizes.
His own breathing is strained - and not the only thing about him that is, if he's honest - and his head swims with warning chimes and rational objections that are actively being shoved underwater by his love and yearning.
Her fingers loosen around his wrist but don't fully let go. He turns away from her for a moment, sitting and taking in the renewed fire for a moment's clarity. He can feel her eyes on him, but he tries his best to ignore them and debate as objectively as he can with himself in silence without the influence of however her face might look in this moment. It's extremely difficult to do that, however, when she moves her hand down from his sleeve cuff and laces their fingers together slowly and studiously as they had been just minutes earlier.
Minutes. Was that all it had been when he still had the willpower to not kiss his best friend? Was it only minutes ago that she had been angry with him and that he was afraid she'd never forgive him for turning down her gift?
She sits patiently and silently by his side, the blankets melting off her shoulders into a curved pile in the middle of the bed. Trying not to worry about what the prince is thinking about, she concentrates on the shape of his face from the side and illuminated by the warm firelight. A long, sharp nose. Dark hair to his shoulders that looks like the night's sky, like the ink of his books and his letters. Strong eyebrows atop kind and wondering brown eyes, ones that right now look wider and distant. Soft thin lips that she now knows feel so nice against her own.
She rests her chin on his shoulder, leaning into him with such love in her heart for this man, love that pushes out what worry she feels over his extended silence.
