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"A cold one like mine? I was dreaming of you."

"You are unbelievable," she sputtered.

Hagan just smiled.

Mid-grumble about Hagan's ridiculous possessive comments—still trying to wriggle out of his hoodie—her fingers brushed against something beneath the fabric. A worn leather cord looped around his neck. Something small and metallic glinted where it disappeared under the collar of his shirt.

Curious, her hand stilled.

"What's that?" she murmured, already tugging the cord free.

It slipped out with surprising ease, the pendant swinging gently between them.

No. Not a pendant.

Her ring.

The slim band of woven gold she had forged for him. The one she had given him during their handfasting on that day when things seemed to be looking up for them.

Her breath caught as it settled in her palm. The air between them seemed to still.

"I didn't expect you to keep it," she whispered.

Hagan didn't say anything at first. His gaze was locked on the ring, the faintest crease between his brows. Then, quietly, "It wouldn't fit anymore."

She blinked, looking up.

"I grew," he said, almost sheepish. "Even my fingers. I tried, but..." A faint smile curved one corner of his mouth. "This was the only way to keep it close."

She didn't tell him his strength was the gift she ceded for their freedom. Instead, she stared at the ring—at the pain of memory looped around a simple leather tie. Her fingers curled around it like a reflex, her heart thudding too hard in her chest.

He hadn't just kept it.

He'd worn it. Carried it like something sacred.

She couldn't speak—not yet. The ache in her throat was too thick.

Hagan guided her gently to the chair like she was made of spun glass. She barely had time to protest before he was placing a plate in front of her—pancakes, golden and crisp-edged, layered with strawberries and a generous dollop of crème fraîche, dusted lightly with powdered sugar. There was a small glass pitcher of syrup beside it, warm to the touch. A steaming mug of coffee followed just the way she liked it.

She stared at the spread in disbelief.

"You made this?" she asked, suspicious.

"Believe it or not," he said, sliding into the chair opposite, "I've been practising."

She arched a brow but took the fork.

He watched her.

Gods, he watched her.

His eyes tracked every movement—each bite lifted to her lips, each chew, each swallow. It wasn't even subtle. It was reverent. Intense.

As though she was a long-lost miracle rediscovered over breakfast.

His gaze burned across her skin with a slow, simmering heat that made her shift in her seat. Not uncomfortable. Just... exposed. Seen.

"Stop staring," she muttered, stabbing a strawberry.