“Have dinner with me.” He stiffens. Glances over his shoulder. “What?” “Have—” I twitch. “Have dinner with me. A … a date.” Gods, I’m flayed open. This morning has done nothing but peel back my layers until all I have left is pathetic neediness, and I know it’s painted on my face. Thio lowers his arm, chalk pinched in his fingers. I’ve seen him smile so many times. So many different flavors of it, I could write a thesis on the dozens of ways Elethior Tourael’s lips move. But this smile? It puts all the others to shame. It’s joy and relief, it’s ecstasy and an unspoken, vibrant finally.
