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Even the Whispering Woods had gone soft around the edges, humming instead of groaning, offering gentle breezes instead of warnings.

But Rollo hadn’t relaxed in days. Because today—hell, maybethis moment—was the one he’d been turning over in his mind since the night Delilah saved his life… again.

He stood outside The Spellbound Sip, one hand fiddling with the edge of his flannel sleeve, the other holding the smallest box he’d ever carried that somehow weighed more than a bear trap.

The ring inside wasn’t flashy. Gods knew Delilah would’ve handed it back if it sparkled too hard. No, it was simple. Gold kissed with forest iron, forged by hand, with a single crescent rune carved on the inside. The one she’d drawn on the ritual bowl to represent them in the forest.

He tucked it back in his pocket and took a breath.

The little bell above the door chimed when he pushed inside.

It smelled like lemon mist and roasted almonds. A cozy mix of sweetness and something tart—just like her.

Delilah sat near the back window, sunlight catching in her chestnut hair. She wore her usual—soft cotton sleeves pushed to her elbows, a smudge of something herb-stained on her cheek. She looked like home.

Rollo didn’t smile. Not yet. He couldn’t. His jaw was tight, his palms sweating. And he hated how his heart kept trying to knock its way out of his chest like it had something to prove.

“Hey, bear,” she said, without looking up from her tea. “You’re late.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I was… uh. Thinkin’.”

She raised an eyebrow, teasing. “Dangerous habit.”

He crossed to her slowly, boots silent on the old wooden floor, and took the seat across from her. “Got a minute?”

“For you? Always.”

Nerissa, the siren-barista, passed by with a wink and a fresh pot of tea. Rollo murmured a thank you, then held up a hand when she reached for their cups.

“I got this part,” he said, his voice gruff but soft.

Delilah blinked. “You’re making the tea?”

He nodded.

“Since when do you?—”

He didn’t answer. Just reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bundle of herbs tied in twine. Cinnamon bark, dried lemon balm, and one perfect lemon mist blossom. Carefully, he dropped them into her cup, letting them steep. The air shifted, warm and citrusy.

She leaned in, eyes narrowing. “What are you up to?”

He looked at her hands wrapped around the mug, and then up into her hazel eyes.

“I ain’t good with speeches,” he started, voice low. “Words never came easy. But you… you always made ‘em feel worth sayin’.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“I spent most of my life thinkin’ I had to be hard. That protectin’ folks meant standin’ between them and hurt, even if it meant lettin’ it hit me instead. Even if it meant pushin’ people away.”

He swallowed hard.

“But then you came back. And I remembered that protection isn’t just fighting.”

Her hand twitched around the cup.

“It’s holdin’. Standing beside. Taking the weightwithsomeone, not from them.”

He reached into his coat again, pulled out the cinnamon bark she hadn’t noticed before—cracked down the center.