Chapter 105: Unspoken

Levan had not meant to pull her in so tightly. He only intended to lower his arms, perhaps let her step close if she wished. But the moment her small frame brushed against him, something in him gave way, like a bowstring finally slackening after being drawn too long.

Before he could think, his arms wrapped around her firmly as though he feared she might disappear again if he was not holding her with both arms, with his whole body. The embrace was not gentle at first. It was tight, solid, almost desperate in its quietness.

Ilaria gasped a little from the force of it, but she did not pull away. She softened into him, her warmth sinking through the thin fabric of his shirt, her cheek settling against his chest right where his heartbeat hammered too fast for someone who claimed to be “fine.”

Little by little, the rigidity in his arms eased. His grip did not loosen because he was any less rattled, only because holding her no longer felt like clinging to the edge of a cliff. Her steady breathing seeped through him, smoothing the sharp edges of fear he had not wanted to name.

His embrace softened, still secure, still close, but no longer pressed tight as though the world might steal her away. One hand slipped higher to the middle of her back, the other resting gently at her waist, thumb brushing an absent, calming stroke against the fabric of her nightgown.

Ilaria shifted slightly, her head turning so her cheek were rested against his shoulder instead of his chest. Her fingers brushed tentatively against his sleeve, as though testing if he truly meant to keep her there. When he did not pull away, she relaxed fully, nestling lightly into him.

For a while, they stood like that, breathing in the quiet. His heartbeat slowed to something steady, matching the slow rise and fall of her breath against him.

Only then did she whisper, her voice muffled against his shoulder, “…Are you still mad?”

Levan shook his head, looking down at her like he was looking at the entire world. “Not mad,” he murmured.

She blinked at him, skepticism plain in her eyes.

He sighed and reluctantly conceded, “Only… a bit upset.”

“A bit?” she repeated softly, the faintest wry smile tugging at her lips.

His brow lowered a fraction. “Yes. A bit,” he insisted, as if the correction mattered.

Ilaria let out a small breath, leaning a little more into him, settling as though the confession had unlocked something between them. She twisted her fingers lightly in the fabric of his shirt on his back, shy and thoughtful.

“…How much is ’a bit’?” she asked, voice light but teasing at the edges.

Levan huffed a quiet breath, the closest thing to a laugh he had given all night. His arms settled more comfortably around her shoulders, the hold no longer defensive or desperate, just present. Just there. His chin brushed the crown of her head before he tilted slightly, lips resting near her temple as he answered.

“Enough to worry, but not enough to be angry anymore.”

“…Really?”

“Yes, really.”

Ilaria let out a sigh of relief, letting the closeness wrap around her like a blanket. She spoke after a moment, timid but honest. “I really wasn’t trying to cause trouble. I just… wanted to be alone for a little while.”

He nodded slightly, the movement shifting his cheek against her hair. “…Then tell me next time,” he said gently. “So I can keep the world quiet for you instead. Better than you disappearing on me.”

Ilaria’s cheeks warmed at his words. She opened her mouth to respond, but Levan spoke first, his voice low and almost reluctant, as if the words slipped out before he could decide whether to keep them.

“You were trembling earlier,” he said.

Ilaria stilled. “…I was?”

He hummed. “You looked like you might cry.”

Her face heated instantly. “I— I was not going to cry.”

Levan’s lips curved, not quite a smile, but something gentler, something that pressed warmth against the side of her head. “You were.”

“I wasn’t,” she insisted, burying her face in his shoulder as though that would hide her embarrassment.

His chest rumbled faintly with another soft breath of amusement. “You still are.”

Ilaria made a tiny sound of mortification. “Well maybe someone was glaring like they wanted to melt me alive!”

His arms tightened just a little, more apology than restraint. “I’m sorry I couldn’t control my expression.”

Ilaria pulled back just enough to look up at him, her lips jutted out into a pout. “Husband, you looked like you were deciding whether to scold me or banish me to the courtyard.”

Levan tilted his head, unimpressed. “Why would I banish you to the courtyard?”

“I don’t know,” she huffed softly, “to teach me a lesson?”

He stared at her. “At three in the morning?”

She nodded seriously. “The lesson would have been very effective.”

Levan exhaled through his nose, and it sounded dangerously close to a laugh. “And let you freeze to death? What kind of husband would I be?” His fingers brushed the side of her arm. “Your hands were like ice.”

“They’re warm now,” she pointed out, trying to sound triumphant.

His hold tightened by instinct. “Because I’m warming you.”

He shifted enough to look at her properly, gaze tracing her face up and down. The faint moonlight made the concern in his eyes unmistakable, not anger, not frustration, but fear that had nowhere to go.

“You walked out in just this thin nightgown,” he said lowly, thumb brushing the edge of her shoulder, “and you didn’t even wear slippers.” His voice softened, brittle with what he had been imagining. “You made me think of the worst, you know?”

Ilaria looked down self-consciously. “I didn’t think I’d stay outside that long.”

Levan did not sigh this time. He just stared at her quietly, steady and unreadable for a moment. Then his arms loosened, not to let go, but to hold her more gently, more purposefully. His chin brushed her hair as he spoke.

“Everything is fine,” he said. “Just… don’t disappear on your own like that again. That’s all I ask.”

There was no desperation in it. No order, no reproach. Just a quiet plea from someone who did not know how to say he had been scared.

Ilaria felt her throat tighten. She looked up at him, eyes wide with guilt and something warmer. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I promise.”

The moment the words left her, she felt the weight of them settle in her chest, not as a burden but as something impossibly gentle. A vow that mattered.

She had not expected him to care like this. She thought his anger had been the kind that pushed people away, not the kind that came from wanting them safe. She had been ready to apologize for upsetting him, but not for frightening him. She had not known she had done that.

And somewhere beneath the night air still clinging cold against her skin, it struck her how far they had come.

There had been a time, not long ago, when she would have been grateful for even a glance from him. When she would wait for him to speak first, just to hear something other than silence between them. When she was the only one in this marriage who was happy to be here, who held onto the hope that affection might someday come, even if it was only a sliver.

She used to wonder if she was foolish for wanting anything more than duty.

But here he was, holding her like her absence could unsteady him, like her presence brought relief. Worrying over her bare feet, her thin nightgown, her promise not to slip away alone whilst speaking gently, not because he had to, but because something in him softened for her.

She had wished for him to see her. Just see her.

But this… this was him feeling her absence. This was him wanting her close, not because she was his wife by name, but because she was her. Her heart fluttered with something fierce and fragile all at once. A warmth that felt too big for her ribs, too real to ignore, too tender to touch without trembling.

She had hoped for affection. She never expected she would be missed. And now, pressed against him in the quiet of the night, she realized they were not standing on opposite sides hoping to meet anymore.

Yet even in this closeness, there were things she had not told him. The faint mark beneath her skin that throbbed quietly, the worry she carried for her sister that weighed on her chest, the lingering shadow of the nightmare that had shaken her only hours before. Every one of them was a secret, a small shard of fear or pain she had tucked away, hoping not to burden him.

Now, feeling his steady heartbeat under her ear, she knew that keeping these things from him was almost cruel. He would worry a lot, she was certain of it, and if he knew, his concern would flare like wildfire. Part of her longed to tell him everything, to let him cradle her worries as he had done with so many other fears.

But not yet. Not tonight.

She pressed closer, breathing him in, letting herself feel safe in the space they had reclaimed together. There would be a time to confess, she promised herself, when the world felt less sharp and their hearts less fragile.

For now, it was enough to be here, in this small cocoon of warmth and quiet understanding, and to let the unspoken remain just that, unspoken.

She lifted her head slightly, looking up at him, her eyes glinting in the soft lantern light. “You… always know how to make me feel safe,” she murmured, her voice filled with genuine affection.

Levan’s hummed quietly. “You’re not hard to take care of,” he replied, “just stubborn sometimes.”

Her lips curved into a small, hesitant smile, a fragile flicker of courage that belied the storm of nerves in her chest. Encouraged, she rose on her tiptoes, her hands trembling slightly as they rested on his broad shoulders. Every heartbeat thundered in her ears, every breath caught in the hollow of her chest, as if the world itself had paused to watch.

She leaned in slowly, every inch a careful surrender. Time seemed to stretch; the soft rustle of her nightgown, the warmth of his arms around her, the golden intensity of his gaze… all of it sharpened the moment into something exquisite and fragile.

“Do you… ever wonder what it would be like… if we didn’t hold back?” She asked.

Levan blinked, caught off guard by the question, the weight behind it making him pause. His eyes searched hers, narrowing ever so slightly, a flicker of curiosity and something unspoken passing between them.

Before he could decipher the meaning behind her words, Ilaria moved, and then her lips were pressed against his.

Tentative, feather-light, a whisper of contact that carried a thousand unspoken words. Her pulse raced, her stomach fluttered, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just the warmth of him, and the tremulous thrill of discovering something neither of them had dared before.

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