The first slices of meat had barely begun to sear when Valdor noticed Amor reaching toward the hottest section of the cooking surface with his bandaged hand.
He caught Amor gently by the forearm before his sleeve could unravel and drift near the flame, guiding the injured wrist back toward the safer edge of the table.
"Sit."
Amor stared at him.
"I am already sitting."
"Sit back."
"A bandage has not rendered me incapable of approaching a grill."
"It has made you slower with that hand."
Amor looked down at the fresh wrapping around his wrist, then back toward Valdor with visible offense.
"My injury is minor!"
Valdor shifted the iron pan closer to himself.
"Then it will heal quickly if you do not burn it."
The logic was irritatingly sound. Amor opened his fan and leaned back upon the bench with enough elegance to suggest the retreat had been his idea.
"Very well. You may manage the dangerous portion of the meal while I supervise!"
Valdor glanced toward him.
"You supervise often."
"I possess a discerning eye!"
"You stare."
Amor’s fan snapped open wider.
"Attend to the meat! Humph!"
Valdor obeyed, though the faint curve near his scarred mouth revealed he considered the exchange another victory.
He turned the lamb at precisely the right moment, allowing the edges to brown without drying the center, while Amor began preparing a sauce within the shallow pan on the cooler side of the cooking surface. Honey, crushed berries, vinegar, salt, and herbs went into the mixture in careful increments rather than all at once. Amor stirred with his uninjured hand, watching the consistency as closely as Valdor watched the meat.
The sauce thickened too quickly. A dark line began forming around the edge of the pan.
Valdor reached toward it, but Amor had already lifted the vessel partially from the heat and added a small spoonful of water. He scraped the caramelizing edge back into the center, stirred until the texture loosened, then lowered the temperature by shifting the pan farther from the flame. The bitter scent disappeared before the sauce could burn.
Valdor watched him.
"You knew before it spoiled."
"Hm? Well yeah. The bubbles changed."
"Most people smell burning first."
"Then most people are inattentive."
Amor tasted the sauce from the back of the spoon, frowned, and added a pinch of salt. He did not measure it. His hand moved from memory. Valdor filed the observation away.
Amor had asked for another day, and Valdor would not use patience as a disguise for interrogation. Still, every action revealed something the delicate nobleman did not explain. His hands understood scarcity even when his clothing suggested abundance had always surrounded him.
One of the vegetable bowls had begun releasing too much water.
Amor tilted it immediately, pouring the liquid into the shallow broth pot rather than allowing it to dilute the frying ingredients. He added onion ends, mushroom stems, herbs, and the marrow bone they had selected earlier, then adjusted the heat until the liquid began to simmer rather than boil violently. Nothing useful entered the waste container.
Valdor looked toward the collection bowl beneath the table. It remained nearly empty.
"You keep everything."
He observed.
"Everything worth keeping."
Amor lifted one of the fish portions and inspected the flesh beneath the light. He pressed near the edge, smelled it briefly, then checked the color near the skin before placing it upon the grill. The sequence was quick and practiced. Valdor turned the lamb.
"You test for spoilage?"
"It is sensible."
"You know where to press."
Amor’s hand stilled. The warrior did not ask how. He merely shifted the fish away from the hottest section and allowed Amor to continue.
That restraint reached Amor more effectively than any question could have.
Valdor clearly recognized that the skills came from somewhere painful, yet he accepted the boundary Amor had placed around the truth. He did not demand confession as payment for concern. He simply listened when Amor spoke and remembered what he saw. Amor lowered his gaze toward the broth.
"Do not let it boil too hard..."
He instructed.
"The fat will cloud it, and the marrow will become greasy rather than rich."
Valdor adjusted the heat without argument.
"You know broth."
"I also know how to make one pot become several meals."
The words escaped before Amor could soften them. Valdor’s gaze lifted. Amor added quickly.
"It-it’s a useful household skill!"
The warrior did not challenge the explanation. He only nodded and added the bones exactly where Amor indicated.
Their cooking settled into a shared rhythm after that, neither man needing to announce every movement before the other understood it. Valdor handled the hotter surfaces, heavier pans, and thick cuts of meat, while Amor managed seasoning, sauces, delicate fish, and the careful division of ingredients. Whenever one finished a task, the other was already making space for the next. The ease of it felt suspiciously domestic.
Amor noticed first when Valdor moved the vegetable bowl closer to him without being asked, then placed a clean spoon beside his hand before he could search for one. He responded by sliding the honey glaze toward Valdor and silently indicating that the warrior should brush it over the lamb. Valdor complied, though his expression suggested he knew the sweetness had been chosen for Amor.
Amor waited until Valdor turned toward the broth. Then he applied an additional layer of berry glaze to the largest piece of beef.
Valdor looked back. Amor continued stirring with exaggerated innocence.
"You changed it."
Valdor said.
"I improved it."
"It was mine."
"You intended to eat it in my presence. That makes its flavor a shared concern!"
Valdor lifted one brow. Amor looked toward the courtyard.
The warrior said nothing, but he turned toward the vegetable platter and placed three roasted greens upon Amor’s plate. Amor noticed when he looked down.
He removed one.
Valdor replaced it.
Amor removed two.
Valdor placed four more.
Their eyes met.
"This is retaliation!"
Amor accused.
"It is balance."
"I have eaten vegetables already!"
"You tasted one pepper."
"It was a substantial pepper!"
Valdor added a mushroom. Amor stared at the growing pile with disbelief.
"You are abusing your control over the grill!"
"You sweetened my meat."
"You needed culture!"
"You need greens."
Amor lifted his fan, though the motion failed to conceal his smile.
The game continued without either formally acknowledging it. Amor secretly added honey to Valdor’s barley while Valdor slipped roasted squash onto Amor’s plate whenever his attention shifted. By the time the broth was ready, each had altered the other’s meal enough that separating ownership became impossible.
The waiter returned carrying additional napkins and slowed when he saw the table.
Amor was holding a spoon toward Valdor’s mouth.
The action had begun as a practical request for him to taste the sauce, but the position looked significantly less innocent from several paces away. Valdor leaned forward and accepted the spoonful without hesitation. His lips closed around the utensil while his gaze remained upon Amor.
The waiter stopped. Amor noticed him. His hand froze in midair.
The young man’s expression remained professionally neutral, though the quiet understanding in his eyes made it clear he no longer believed their earlier denial. He looked toward their matching aprons, shared plates, and the vegetables Valdor was still placing beside Amor’s fish. Amor withdrew the spoon.
"This is not what you think."
The waiter bowed.
"Of course, Young Lord."
"That answer suggests the opposite!"
"I have made no assumption."
"You made one earlier!"
"And apologized."
Valdor reached for a slice of lamb. The waiter looked toward him. Valdor held the piece near Amor’s lips.
"Taste."
Amor turned crimson.
"Not now!"
"You said the glaze was improved."
"It can be evaluated from my plate!"
"This piece has more."
The waiter’s gaze shifted carefully toward the ceiling. Amor lowered his voice.
"He already thinks we are courting!"
Valdor considered the problem. Then he moved the meat closer.
"He already believes it. Stopping changes nothing."
The waiter’s shoulders trembled with suppressed laughter. Amor looked between them and realized he had been strategically defeated by a barbarian wielding his own embarrassment as logic. Refusing the bite would make him appear more affected than accepting it. He opened his mouth and allowed Valdor to feed him.
The lamb was excellent. The berry glaze had caramelized at the edges, while the honey softened the sharper herbs Valdor originally chose. Amor chewed slowly and tried to ignore the satisfaction in the warrior’s gaze. The waiter retreated before his composure failed completely.
"He will tell everyone."
Amor murmured.
"Your servants already tell everyone."
"That does not mean strangers must join them!"
Valdor cut another piece.
"Do you dislike being seen with me?"
The question removed the humor from Amor’s complaint. He looked toward the warrior immediately.
"No!"
Valdor waited. Amor lowered his fan.
"I... dislike losing control over how something is understood. That is different."
The answer seemed to satisfy him. Valdor placed the next piece of meat upon Amor’s plate rather than feeding it to him, respecting the distinction without requiring further explanation. Amor noticed the adjustment and felt another quiet warmth settle beneath his ribs. Valdor learned boundaries as quickly as he learned preferences.
Amor returned to the broth. He skimmed a thin layer of foam from the surface, added the remaining mushrooms, then crushed a small amount of toasted grain into the liquid to give it body. The method transformed what had begun as scraps into a fragrant soup rich enough to serve alongside the main meal. Valdor watched the pot with growing appreciation.
"You made this from what others throw away."
He said. Amor tasted it.
"Not everything discarded is useless."
The words carried more meaning than food. Valdor heard it.
He accepted the bowl Amor handed him and drank carefully, his eyes narrowing as he evaluated the flavor. The broth was earthy, rich with marrow, and brightened by herbs that prevented the fat from becoming heavy. It tasted like something made by necessity but refined through intelligence.
"This is good."
He said. Amor looked pleased despite himself.
"I know."
"You make little become enough."
The spoon stopped halfway toward Amor’s mouth. The restaurant faded.
For one merciless instant, he was Lovell again, crouched beside a weak flame inside an abandoned storage room while rain hammered the broken roof. A handful of rice, half a spoiled onion, and water scraped from a rusted collection barrel simmered inside a dented pot. His mother stood behind him asking whether the food was ready while his father divided the largest surviving portion between the two of them. Lovell received the bottom.
He always received the bottom.
The thinnest broth, the burned grains, and whatever remained after the useful parts had been taken. His parents praised him only when he stretched supplies farther than expected, then used that competence as another reason to demand more from him. Every skill became something they consumed.
Amor’s expression changed. Valdor noticed immediately. He did not ask what memory had reached him.
Instead, he looked across the plates and selected the best piece of meat—the thickest cut of beef, perfectly browned outside while remaining tender within. He placed it onto Amor’s plate. Amor blinked.
"Oh, that’s yours."
"No."
"You chose it though."
"It is yours now."
Amor reached to return it. Valdor placed his hand over the plate.
"Keep it."
"I already have enough."
"You give the useful parts away first."
The words landed softly. Amor became still. Valdor glanced toward the broth, the trimmed vegetables, and the sauces Amor adjusted for Valdor’s preference before making his own.
"You keep what remains."
"That... it’s easier."
"It is a habit."
Amor looked down. The warrior moved his hand from the plate to Amor’s uninjured fingers.
"Eat the best piece."
No one had ever said that to Lovell. His parents took the best because they considered their survival more valuable. Even after becoming Amor, servants selected the finest portions for him because of rank, beauty, and wealth—not because someone had watched the way he divided food and decided he should receive something back. Valdor’s gesture was not obligation. It was recognition. Amor swallowed.
"You are making it difficult to argue."
"Yes."
A faint smile touched Amor’s mouth. He cut the beef. The first bite was tender, rich, and faintly sweet from the glaze he had secretly added to Valdor’s portion. Knowing it had been returned to him made the flavor feel almost unbearably warm. He ate without offering any back. Valdor looked satisfied.
The meal continued more quietly for several minutes, though the silence no longer felt uncomfortable. Amor ate the piece Valdor gave him, and Valdor finished the vegetables Amor seasoned despite pretending to disapprove of their quantity. Their shoulders remained touching beside the cooking station.
When the main plates had been cleared, Amor examined what remained.
’Good. It’s very little.’
A small portion of barley, several strips of uncooked vegetables, half the broth, and two pieces of fish remained untouched. Amor began separating them into containers provided by the restaurant. Valdor joined him.
He packed the raw ingredients carefully, keeping them apart from anything cooked, then sealed the broth himself after testing the lid. The leftover barley went into a smaller container suitable for reheating. Even the marrow bone was wrapped to return to the estate kitchen for another stock. The waiter approached again.
"Would you like us to store these for your carriage?"
"Yes."
Amor said. Valdor looked toward the donation emblem painted near the courtyard.
"Can food be purchased for the shelter?"
The waiter brightened.
"Yes. Guests may add meals to their account, and the kitchen prepares them during the evening service."
"How many?"
Valdor reached toward the pouch at his sash. Amor stopped him.
"House Moons invited you."
"This is not your meal."
"It is part of the outing!"
"It is my choice."
The distinction mattered. Amor released his hand. Valdor removed several kingdom coins Vervath had apparently given him for the capital. He examined them briefly before placing enough upon the table to purchase multiple meals. The amount was modest by Amor’s standards but likely meaningful within Blackstone travel allowances. The waiter counted carefully.
"This will provide twelve full dinners."
Valdor nodded.
"Good."
Amor watched him. Valdor had chosen the donation because he respected the restaurant’s policy, but the timing revealed more. He had seen Amor’s reaction to waste, recognized the history Amor refused to explain, and altered his own behavior in response. He gave without turning the act into a question. The realization deepened the dangerous softness already growing inside Amor.
"You did not need to do that...."
He said after the waiter left.
Valdor looked toward him.
"I wanted to."
"For the policy?"
"For you..."
Amor’s breath caught. Valdor clarified with the same directness that continually disarmed him.
"It matters to you."
That was all. No demand for gratitude or expectation of an reward. Amor lowered his gaze toward the table because looking directly at Valdor had become difficult again.
"You have fulfilled your promise."
"To make you feel better?"
"Yes."
"I have not finished."
Amor looked up. Valdor gathered the remaining toasted grain, a spoonful of honey, and several softened berries from their ingredients. He mixed them in a small bowl, pressing the fruit into the grain until the mixture held together, then shaped it between his palms. The result resembled a rough little cake more than anything produced by a professional confectioner.
He placed it briefly upon the warm edge of the cooking surface. The honey caramelized. The berries darkened.
Valdor turned it once, then lifted the imperfect sweet onto a small plate. Amor stared.
"What is that?"
"Something for you."
"It appears structurally uncertain."
"It will hold."
Valdor waited until it cooled, then offered it. The sweet was uneven, slightly flattened on one side, and nowhere near the artistry of Madam Bellisa’s pastries. Yet Valdor had made it himself from what remained at the table, combining honey, berries, and soft toasted grain because he knew Amor liked all three. Nothing about it was accidental. Amor accepted the plate.
"You made this to repair my mood?"
"Yes."
"You already repaired it."
"Then it can improve further."
The answer brought a laugh from Amor before he could stop it. He broke off a piece.
The texture was chewy, the berries tart, and the caramelized honey slightly smoky from the cooking surface. It was not refined. It was also delicious. Valdor watched every change in his expression.
"Well?"
He asked. Amor ate another bite.
"I suppose it’s... acceptable..."
Valdor’s eyes narrowed faintly. Amor smiled.
"Very acceptable."
The warrior relaxed. Amor finished the entire sweet, even gathering the sticky crumbs from the plate with the tip of one finger. He did not leave a single piece behind. Valdor noticed that too.
When they finally removed their aprons and prepared to leave, the restaurant staff packed every leftover carefully and labeled the containers for House Moons. The waiter who had mistaken them for a couple carried the parcel toward the front with an expression of quiet certainty. He no longer appeared interested in whether Amor wished to deny it.
Valdor replaced his mantle. Amor adjusted the fur near his shoulder without thinking. The gesture brought them close with Valdor leaning down so Amor wouldn’t have to be on his tiptoes while adjusting it, it was enough that Valdor lowered his gaze toward him. Amor’s fingers lingered upon the clasp before smoothing the fabric flat.
"There..."
He said.
"You were uneven."
Valdor looked down.
"You fixed it."
"That is what a discerning eye is for."
The waiter watched from the doorway. Amor noticed. He pulled his hand back and lifted his fan with great dignity.
"Do not."
"I said nothing, Young Lord."
"You are thinking loudly."
The waiter bowed to conceal his smile. They left The Open Hearth shortly after noon.
The restaurant district had grown busier while they ate, its streets crowded with merchants, nobles, workers, and travelers searching for luncheon. Amor stepped into the sunlight with Valdor beside him, expecting the same curiosity that followed them throughout the morning. Instead, the attention felt sharper.
People were whispering. Several pedestrians looked toward Valdor, then immediately toward Amor’s bandaged wrist. Others stared openly at the warrior’s hands before murmuring to their companions. One young clerk nearly walked into a signpost while turning to watch them pass.
The story had spread. Amor understood before hearing the words.
"...threw Duke Solaris directly onto his face..."
"...inside Maison Reverie..."
"...after the duke grabbed Lord Amor..."
"...Blackstone chieftain’s son..."
"...wearing no shirt at the time..."
Amor closed his eyes briefly. The final detail would ensure the account survived for generations. Valdor listened without visible concern.
"They exaggerate."
"You were shirtless."
"I wore pants."
"Poorly!"
"They were weak."
"That will become the official defense at court...."
Valdor looked toward him.
"It is true."
Amor opened his fan and began walking. The rumor had already moved beyond control, and attempting to correct every retelling would only give it new life. The safest response was to continue their outing as though nothing significant had occurred. House Moons could manage the diplomatic consequences later.
"The riverside promenade is nearby..."
Amor said.
"It will be less crowded than the central square."
Valdor followed.
"You wish to leave?"
"I wish to walk somewhere people might stare at the river instead of us."
"They will not."
"I know...."
Amor sighed. They left the restaurant district through a shaded avenue that sloped gently toward the water. The air became cooler as the broad river came into view between buildings, sunlight glittering across its surface while elegant bridges connected the commercial quarters. Flowering trees lined the promenade, and small pavilions offered music, tea, jewelry, and art to strolling patrons.
Amor’s mood improved.
He remembered Mary mentioning that Master Pellin had received a new collection of moonstones from the western mines. The jeweler’s shop occupied a corner near the promenade, close enough that they could browse after walking. Examining gemstones sounded peaceful compared with everything else the day had produced.
"I want to visit Master Pellin. I heard he has got another shipment of moonstones and I wish to buy them."
Amor said. Valdor glanced toward his moonstone earrings.
"More stones?"
"He has new ones."
"You already own many."
"That is not an argument against acquiring better ones!"
"Do you need them?"
Amor looked genuinely confused by the question.
"Need has never governed jewelry."
Valdor accepted this as another kingdom custom requiring observation rather than understanding. They had nearly reached the first pavilion when a familiar voice called Amor’s name.
"Lord Amor?"
Amor stopped. A handsome man in a pale gold coat approached from the promenade, surprise and pleasure brightening his face. He was tall, elegantly dressed, and carried the polished confidence of someone who had spent years receiving encouragement from mirrors. Amor recognized him through the original body’s memories.
Lord Darien Hollander.
Three months of flowers, poetry, and dramatic balcony visits. Discarded after he criticized Amor for wearing lavender more beautifully than his sister. Darien bowed over Amor’s hand without quite touching it.
"The rumors are true, then."
Amor narrowed his eyes.
"Which rumors?"
"That you are free of Duke Solaris..."
Valdor became still.
Darien noticed him only after speaking. His gaze traveled upward, taking in Valdor’s height, markings, new clothing, and unmistakable proximity to Amor. The confidence in his smile weakened but did not disappear.
"I had not realized you were accompanied."
"I am."
Valdor looked toward Amor.
"Who is he?"
Darien’s brows rose. Amor answered before either man could establish dominance through staring.
"Lord Darien Hollander. We were briefly acquainted."
"Briefly?"
Darien repeated with wounded amusement.
"You once sent me thirty lavender roses."
"You returned thirty-one."
"I wished to surpass you. How could I allow someone as beautiful as you to have any less? It would hurt my pride as your suitor had I not done so."
"You attached a note explaining the symbolism."
"It was a grand romantic gesture. One I wish to repeat over and over if it could put a smile upon your lovely lips."
"It was competitive."
Valdor listened carefully. Darien’s gaze moved toward Amor’s arm linked with the warrior’s.
"I hope your new freedom means you might reconsider old mistakes."
"You were not a mistake..."
Darien brightened.
"You were an educational inconvenience."
His expression fell. Amor began walking again. Darien followed for three steps before Valdor turned his head.
The nobleman stopped.
Valdor had not threatened him, touched him, or spoken. He simply looked. The effect was enough. Amor noticed and privately appreciated the efficiency.
They had barely continued beyond the next tree when another man approached.
This one was a merchant’s son Amor remembered from a twelve-week courtship involving expensive perfume and one disastrous boating excursion. He offered lunch, theater tickets, and an apology for falling into the lake. Before Amor could reject him properly, a young knight interrupted to present a bouquet purchased from a nearby stand.
Then came another.
And another.
Word of Amor’s breakup had spread almost as quickly as the story of Alphonsins hitting the tailor’s carpet. Every former lover who once believed the duke had permanently removed Amor from circulation now appeared determined to test whether the position had reopened. Men who had never courted him before seemed equally encouraged by the possibility.
The promenade became a procession.
A dark-haired scholar offered to dedicate a new translation of a book to him.
A wealthy widower promised a private box at the opera.
A young lord Amor had met only twice declared that he had always admired the courage required to leave a duke, though the admiration had apparently begun less than an hour earlier. Each man smiled brightly until noticing Valdor.
Then the smiles became cautious. Valdor remained beside Amor without speaking.
His presence prevented anyone from approaching too closely, touching Amor’s hand without permission, or making the more suggestive proposals that usually accompanied noble courtship. Men who might have blocked Amor’s path instead remained at a polite distance. Several looked toward Valdor’s hands and remembered the rumor.
Amor found the arrangement extremely convenient. He rejected offers with graceful efficiency, sometimes kindly and sometimes with enough sharpness to discourage persistence. Valdor adjusted their route whenever a new admirer threatened to trap them against a pavilion. His arm remained steady beneath Amor’s hand.
Inside, something unfamiliar had begun tightening. Valdor did not understand it. He knew anger. Anger was clear, hot, and directional.
He knew protectiveness, suspicion, grief, and the cold focus that came before violence. This feeling resembled none of them precisely. It appeared whenever another man smiled at Amor, offered him gifts, or spoke as though past intimacy created a right to future attention.
His chest felt crowded. His jaw tightened. The hand not supporting Amor curled repeatedly at his side.
None of the men had touched Amor improperly. Most behaved within kingdom customs, and Amor appeared more irritated than tempted. There was no threat to justify intervention. Valdor still wanted them gone. A blond noble approached carrying a velvet box.
"Lord Amor..."
He said, bowing.
"I heard of your unfortunate separation and wished to offer something more worthy of your attention."
He opened the box. Inside lay a silver bracelet set with pale pink stones. Amor examined it briefly.
"You carry jewelry prepared for recently single men?"
The nobleman faltered.
"I had hoped for an opportunity to grace such an elegant wrist the honor of wearing this priceless gift I had prepared for you months ago. I have only just got my servant to rush home and bring it here for you. If I may have your hand—"
Valdor looked at the bracelet. Then at the man. Then at Amor’s bandaged wrist. The crowded feeling became worse.
"He cannot wear it."
Valdor said. The nobleman looked up.
"I beg your pardon?"
"His wrist is injured."
Amor glanced toward him. The explanation was practical, but the tone beneath it carried something sharper. Valdor’s eyes had become noticeably darker. He stood closer than before. The nobleman closed the box.
"Ah! My apologies, Lord Amor. How inappropriate of me, I hadn’t even considered this dilemma. Perhaps when it heals."
"No."
Valdor spoke before Amor could answer. Silence followed. Amor lifted one brow. The nobleman looked between them.
"No?"
Valdor appeared equally surprised by his own response.
He had no formal claim over Amor, and nothing they acknowledged inside The Open Hearth granted him authority to reject another person’s courtship. Yet the idea of the bracelet later circling Amor’s wrist—a gift chosen by someone else, touching skin Valdor had treated—felt intolerable. Amor rescued him.
"I do not accept jewelry from men who approach me only after hearing I am available..."
He said.
"Keep it."
The nobleman bowed stiffly and retreated dejected. Valdor watched him leave. Amor continued walking, though his hand slid lower upon Valdor’s arm until their fingers nearly touched.
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
"You look as though you swallowed something unpleasant."
"I did not."
"Then why are you glaring at every man who speaks to me?"
Valdor looked toward him.
"I am not glaring."
A passing admirer saw his face and immediately changed direction. Amor’s lips twitched.
"You are frightening innocent nobles."
"They want you."
The blunt statement erased the humor. Amor looked ahead, suddenly aware of how tightly Valdor held himself.
"Some of them want the idea of me."
"They still ask."
"I refuse."
"Yes."
Valdor’s jaw remained tight. Amor studied him more carefully.
The warrior was not angry with him. His attention tracked each approaching man, then returned to Amor as though verifying nothing had changed between them. The pattern was familiar enough that understanding began forming.
"Valdor..."
Amor said slowly.
"Have you ever been jealous?"
The warrior frowned.
"Jealous?"
"Yes."
"I know the word."
"That was not my question."
Valdor considered the sensation inside his chest. He had envied hunters who earned marks before him as a child, but the feeling had motivated training rather than resentment. He had never watched someone he wanted surrounded by people offering themselves. Blackstone courtship was direct enough that rivals usually declared intentions openly and settled uncertainty quickly. This was different.
"I do not know."
He admitted. Amor’s heart warmed despite the absurd circumstances.
"Well, what does it feel like?"
He asked. Valdor looked toward another man approaching with flowers.
"I want him to leave."
"That is not conclusive."
"I want all of them to leave."
"More suggestive?"
"I dislike when they look at you."
Amor’s blush returned. Valdor continued, honestly cataloguing symptoms.
"I dislike their gifts. I dislike that they speak as if they know you. I dislike that some did know you."
The final admission carried roughness. Amor looked up at him.
Valdor’s expression remained stern, but uncertainty beneath it made him unexpectedly vulnerable. This was not the confident warrior who faced animals, dukes, and frightened tailors without hesitation. He had encountered a feeling he could not fight or command. Amor tightened his arm around his.
"You are jealous."
Valdor’s brows lowered.
"It is unpleasant."
"Yes."
"How is it stopped?"
Amor nearly laughed.
"Generally through confidence, reassurance, or removing every rival from sight."
"I prefer the third."
"I suspected as much."
Another former lover began approaching from the riverside pavilion. Valdor looked toward him. The man reconsidered. Amor smiled behind his fan.
Perhaps the promenade would not be peaceful after all, but the day had already taught him that intimacy rarely arrived through peaceful circumstances. Sometimes it appeared in shared food, careful bandages, ugly little sweets, and a warrior discovering jealousy because too many men wanted what he had only just begun hoping might choose him. Amor leaned closer.
"You don’t need to frighten all of them."
He murmured. Valdor looked down.
"Why?"
"Because none of them are the person I invited today."
The crowded feeling inside Valdor eased slightly. Amor continued walking toward Master Pellin’s shop, keeping their arms firmly linked while another hopeful suitor watched from a safe distance. Valdor followed, still uncertain how jealousy worked but increasingly certain of one thing.
He did not want to share Amor’s attention.
And for the first time, Amor did not seem offended by that desire.