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“What’s the password?” I asked, leaning over the sill and crossing my arms.

His head lifted and followed my voice, those blue irises penetrating the dark, gleaming when they found me. He recited, “Marshmallow.”

“Ha. Try again, Sir Knight.”

“Toastedmarshmallow.”

I threw my head back and laughed. Aire watched me, a fond expression wrapped around his face.

“You’re looking flexible tonight,” I said. “What brings you to this neck of the treehouse woods?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I was...I thought you might...”

That gesture. Did my eyes deceive me, or did I behold a sheepish Aire?

“I might...,” I prompted.

“Would you like an escort to supper?”

“So formal,” I teased. “You’ve escorted me before.”

He paused, then chuckled to himself. “That is true, yes.”

Okay. Something was up. Something new.

Or not new. Not if I thought about his hands on my hips in the glade, his body whipping around mine as we practiced, the looks we’d been swapping. Moments I hadn’t dared to dwell on.

His ring flashed as he lowered his hand, and something in me crumbled, my moronic daydream crusting over and going stale. Aire was being Aire: chivalrous, kind, considerate, a gentleman. He was all those things and more.

I’d been saving the traits like breadcrumbs to peck at later. He drank warm cider by the bucket-load and relished savories over sweets. He whispered to his steed while brushing its mane. His favorite color was silver. He preferred chronicles to fairytales. Whenever he stretched, he started by rolling his wrists.

Birds flocked to him. So did the wind.

And he touched his metallic ring whenever something confused him. Like it might have the answers he sought. Like nothing else made sense.

On the swing, he’d told me her name, speaking it like a sacred prayer.

We’d become friends, and he was being nice, even if he might be out of practice sharing a closeness with a female.

I snatched an axe, having no reason for it, but attaching it to me anyway, just as he usually carried at least one sword.

I met him at the door. Up close, the tips of his hair were a damp, dark gold from a recent bath.

We strolled in silence to the fire pit terrace, the route’s lanterns glowing with the Mista colors brewed for Nicu.

On the way, and out of nowhere, Aire took my hand.

I swear, my acorn heart grew three times its size. His calloused palm clasped mine, swinging them between us.

I chanted to myself,friends, friends, friends.

“This is a tranquil dusk,” he reflected. “There’s room to ponder without woe or distress. Do you feel it?”

“Right about now, my stomach is doing most of the talking. I’m starving.”

“I’ve missed seeing you today,” he said, tossing me an amused grin.

“I’m missable,” I said.