Page 46 of Golden Bond

He leaned, just barely, as the light waned and his posture relaxed. His head tilted slightly, the scent of cedar clinging faintly to his hair. I felt myself mirror the lean without realizing.

And then I stood.

Quickly. Abruptly. Before my hand could reach for his.

The bond screamed at the break.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. My skin itched with heat. The bond burned faint and hot beneath my sternum, like coals with no air to feed them. I bathed late—twice—sinking into the cold pool near the northern court. I paced the cloister. I recited prayers I hadn’t used in years. Nothing soothed it.

It wasn’t just tension anymore. It was pressure. Like being asked to hold a full breath for hours, days, without exhale.

I started dreaming.

Not of him directly—at least not at first. But of skin. Of light. Of the warm crush of someone’s weight beside mine in the dark. The dreams left mewaking with the sheets tangled and my jaw clenched tight, body half-slick with sweat and need.

And always, the bond throbbed through me like a second heartbeat.

I ran the temple paths at dawn. I let the sand tear my feet bloody. I meditated until my vision blurred. And still, it built.

He was next to me. I could feel it even if I were blind. A pulse, a warmth, a scent that rose each night.

We shared silence like it was sacred. But I was no longer sure it was holy.

It was want.

And it was growing.

The next day, he was late again.

Not by much—but enough.

The moonstone glowed beside the reading bench. The meal had gone untouched. I stood near the open windows, palms resting on the stone sill, watching the last glint of light fade beyond the cloistered rooftops. The bond was a vice around my chest. Each breath felt shallower than the last.

The door opened softly. Footsteps. Then that voice—gentle, uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” Callis said. “I didn’t mean to linger. The baths were full, and the path was…”

“Come here.”

It slipped from me before I could temper it. Not a command. Not exactly. But the words landed heavy in the air.

He froze just inside the threshold.

I turned to look at him.

His brow furrowed. “Did I… do something wrong?”

“No,” I said. My voice was low. Unsteady. “But I need you to come here.”

He hesitated, fingers tightening on the strap of his satchel. The air stretched taut between us.

Still, he came. Step by step, until he stood only an arm’s reach away. He didn’t meet my gaze.

“I—” he started. Then stopped.

I let the silence build a moment longer, then asked, “Do you feel it?”

He blinked. “Feel…?”