And when it’s very late, and very dark, and the palace is quiet, I think about Jax: his watchful eyes, his cautious smile, his fierce determination that revealed itself in the most surprising ways. Like how he seemed almost afraid to succeed at something like archery—followed by clear eagerness to learn once he didn’t fail. I think about his hand on my wrist when we sat by the forge, how I wanted to pull away at first. I think about how his voice was low and soothing, how his fingers were so gentle against my skin that it held me in place. I think about Jax more often than I’d like to admit.
