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Varka has dreams. Vivid, merciless things that visit him in the quiet hours of the night.
He dreams of a dragon tearing across Mondstadt’s sky—of twin greatwords in his hands and wind at his back as he faces such a beast. He dreams of victory. Of returning home triumphant. He sees the city gates thrown open, hears the thunder of clapping hands and cheering voices, and the unmistakable relief on the faces of his knights as their grand master comes back to them at last. He dreams of a statue carved in his likeness. Of his glass never empty, always filled with his favorite dandelion wine, poured in honor of a hero.
He dreams of what-ifs. Of could-have-beens. Of a distant past that could have been his to look back on fondly.
But he has long since folded those dreams away and set them aside. He has made peace with the life he chose instead—with becoming a hero in quieter ways, in a foreign land as he leads an expedition that keeps calamity far from Mondstadt’s borders.
He does not regret it. Not really. Some things are just the way they are.
And yet, Varka has never stopped dreaming of you. He doesn’t think he ever will.
Whether in sleep or in waking, you find him all the same. His mind renders you with cruel, unforgiving precision: the exact curve of your smile, the softness in your eyes, the way your lips press together when you’re trying not to laugh. He remembers it all. He remembers you in ways that feel less like memory and more like an aching sense of longing.
Some dreams fade with time. You never seem to give him that luxury.
—
“Did you know people believe that during ancient times, when wine was brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?” You hum, tracing a finger over Varka’s nose. His head rests comfortably on your lap, enjoying the gentle breeze of Windrise while he has the opportunity.
Varka rarely has a day off—being the grand master of an order of knights makes for free days to be a difficult thing to come by. The work schedule of someone like him just does not allow such luxuries. But Deputy Master Jean is a good friend of yours, and she’s a kind friend above all. She takes matters into her own hands without being asked—insists that headquarters and the whole of Mondstadt will stay orderly for an entire day without Varka there to see over things.
Reluctantly, your boyfriend agrees. You are not ignorant of his dilemma—his mind tells him that abandoning work is not the sort of thing someone with his duties should do, but his heart is just the same as every man who yearns. His heart aches for the sort of freedom that grants him one day with you. Just a day filled with you and nothing else.
And so, his heart wins. After all, this is Mondstadt. The nation of freedom.
“Oh yeah?” He chuckles fondly, cracking an eye open to look at you, “Well, there’s something you don’t hear every day. And just what did it symbolize?”
“Well,” you murmur, brushing hair from his forehead. He catches your wrist, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss against your palm as you speak, “There are many theories. It’s all folklore, after all. Who’s to say what’s truly the accurate version?”
“And what’s your version?”
“Well,” you start, “dandelion seeds drift through the wind, you see. They travel across many places and see many things before they settle down to grow. There’s an old story about them—perhaps you’ve heard it.”
“Never,” he murmurs.
You give him an unimpressed look, and he shoots you an innocent grin. “Oh, is that so? I’m sure such an important figure in our nation would know one of our most popular tales, would he not?”
“Hah,” he chuckles, gruff and heartily from his chest in that way you can’t help but be endeared by. “If I told you I snoozed through history classes, would you be surprised?”
“Hardly,” you snort.
“Then tell a poor, history-challenged man this famous tale you speak of,” he brings your fingertips to his lips, nibbling at them as you giggle, pulling away from his grasp.
“Varka,” you huff, “you’re a fool, did you know?”
“Not on the battlefield, my fair lady,” he quips back. “That, I can promise.”
“Well,” you roll your eyes, “fine. But only because you asked so sweetly.”
Varka grins up at you, settling even deeper into the pillow of your lap, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in a good long time. His hand runs lazily along your thigh while he waits, eyes half-lidded as he admires you.
“There’s an old folktale,” you begin softly, “about a single dandelion seed that rode on the wind for far longer than any of the others. They say this little seed drifted all across Mondstadt.”
“Hope the journey was kind to the little guy.”
“Don’t interrupt,” you scold, giving him an exaggerated scowl.
He shoots you a faux apologetic look, squeezing your thigh as he obediently says, “Yes, ma’am.”
“It flew through Starsnatch Cliff and watched the cecelias overcome the harsh winds as they grew, and it passed through Whispering Woods and listened to travelers’ and their secrets. This seed saw many things as it passed through while being carried by the wind,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “It watched people as they lived and made memories filled with joy and laughter. Eventually, so much time had passed that the wind had whispered it was time for the seed to settle in a single place and make its own memories, too. But the little seed kept going, it held onto the hopes of witnessing more and carrying as many memories from the people it would see for just a bit longer.”
“What a hardworking little thing,” Varka murmurs teasingly. Then, he winks—cheeky and playful. “Reminds you of someone, huh?”
You flick his forehead. “Certainly not you. All you work hard at is drinking more than everyone around you.”
He laughs, deep and warm. “Well…can’t say that’s completely false. Though it’s not the only thing I work on.”
“Anyway,” you continue, “after a long, long journey, the wind had finally convinced the little seed to settle down on a tiny patch of grass near Windrise. Nothing special—just a small, humble patch of land beneath a big tree.”
“Right where we are now,” he notes, glancing at the roots beside you.
You nod. “And there, after all that traveling, it finally grew. People say the dandelion that sprouted from that seed was different. It was taller and brighter than most dandelions—perhaps because it was touched by all the spirits of all the people it had seen during its journeys. Because it was touched by their hopes to make more cherished memories with the ones they love.”
“And then?” he asks quietly.
“Well,” you say, smoothing the collar of his shirt, “they say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed with that particular dandelion, and the people loved it so much, it became a significant part of Mondstadt’s culture. So…it’s thought that perhaps dandelion wine became a symbol of all the love that the dandelion carried in its little seed form, and all the love it passed on by becoming a drink that people shared on happy occasions.”
As though Barbatos himself were pleased by your words, the wind stirs around you, kissing your skin as it passes through. Varka reaches up and cups your cheek with a large, warm hand, and grins. “Am I safe to assume you brought dandelion wine for me then, because being with me is a happy, joyous occasion?”
You lean down to press your forehead to his, giving him an especially sweet smile. Too sweet, even. “No. I merely told you an old tale that I heard, that’s all.”
He lets out a low, dramatic sigh. “And here I thought you brought all this up just to tell me how much I mean to you.”
“I brought all this up, you see,” you roll your eyes, and he watches as you pull away ever so gently to get a better look at his face. The scar that litters his cheek, the necklace that hangs against his chest, and those thick brows that frame those bright, sparkling eyes. You stare at him, at Varka. Your Varka. You get a good long look before you say, “Because the people of Mondstadt have been drinking dandelion wine more than they ever have these days. And a certain hero has made that so.”
He hums, lips curling into a small, smug grin. “A hero, you say?”
“Yes,” you chuckle, cupping his cheeks, “one who has defeated a dragon and saved us all. We drink dandelion wine in honor of his triumph.”
You lean down and press your lips to his, and he hums, a deep, satisfied rumble that comes from his chest. His hands find the side of your face, holding you steady as a callused thumb traces your cheek. Then, after a moment, he slowly sits up from your lap, taking all his warmth with him. You’re about to protest until he reaches over, picking a small dandelion from the patch of grass beside your picnic blanket before turning and tucking it against your ear.
“There,” he murmurs, “this dandelion has seen how much you mean to me. So, I guess we can say the wind carried it to the right place, huh?”
Your breath hitches for a moment before you slowly break into a bright beam, tugging him closer and pressing a soft, delicate kiss to his lips for a brief moment.
“Yes,” you whisper. “I suppose the wind has carried it exactly where it belongs.”
—
He wakes up with a start, fingers lifting to feel at his lips. The roughness of his fingertips wipe away the lingering phantom of your touch. He groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning and curling deeper into the blankets that litter the floor of his tent.
“Same dream as always,” he grunts to himself shaking his head, “I think I’m beginning to lose it.”
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When Varka returns, Mondstadt gives him a warm welcome. At least, those who remember him, anyway.
Most people tend to forget that Acting Grand Master Jean is only acting in his place temporarily. He does not blame them for it. It has been years since Varka last set foot in his homeland, and much has changed in his absence. Another hero has risen to save his people—a hero to whom he is endlessly indebted, of course. A hero who, alongside the acting grand master and Barbatos himself, has kept his people safe when he could not.
Varka is grateful. Happy, even. Relieved.
But he is also human—and a human who once held a dream. An ambitious dream that had once unfolded vividly before his very eyes, so close it felt tangible, as if he could reach out and grasp it. And yet, fate had cruelly yanked it away from his fingertips just as he thought it might finally be his.
He does not fight fate. Instead, he thanks it. He thanks it for allowing someone else to fulfill his dream in his stead while he battled a crisis in a distant land, ensuring his home remained safe.
But Varka is human, and all humans feel melancholy when their dreams remain only dreams, and nothing more.
“So,” you murmur, sliding into the chair beside him in Angel’s Share and propping your head against your hand, “you come all this way home from a place I can only dream of visiting, and you don’t even bring me back a souvenir? I must say, Grand Master, I’m quite disappointed.”
Varka recognizes your voice. Of course he does. How could he not? It is the same voice that haunted his dreams time and time again while he was away. He has found that on nights when you appear in them, he wakes with an especially sharp ache of homesickness. He longs for the wind of Mondstadt against his face more fiercely than ever, for the distant scent of sweet madames cooking at Good Hunter. He yearns for the familiar sight of his knights and their bright, loyal smiles as he salutes them in passing.
He yearns to see you.
He has not dared to seek you out since his return—fear is a strange, fickle thing. He does not fear dragons, nor monsters of the abyss, nor the countless dangers he has faced without hesitation. But the thought of standing before the woman he has loved silently for years fills him with a quiet, dreadful terror.
So he does not go to you. Instead, you come to him—while he is drunk and alone.
Fantastic.
Slowly, he turns his head.
You sit beside him as though it is the most natural thing in the world. As though he did not vanish for years. As though he had not returned and deliberately avoided the very streets he knew you walked.
As though he had not already lost you.
His throat tightens. He swallows it down with another mouthful of dandelion wine.
“…I…traveled light,” he says at last, voice slurred by his…(what number cup of wine was this? He’s lost count.)
Your mouth curves into a tight smile. There’s something searching in your eyes as you look at him. Something that sees through him too easily. “That so?” you hum. “Not even something small? I’m hurt.”
He huffs quietly, looking down into his glass. In another life, he had seen this moment differently. He had seen his return as something grander, something worth being prouder of. Not something quite like this. In that life, he had returned a hero.
Sometimes, though he doesn’t regret the path he chose, he mourns what he had seen in the scryglass—the dragon falling beneath his blade, Mondstadt safe beneath his watch, the city singing his name with pride. He had seen the statue. The celebrations. He had seen you, too. You had been smiling at him like he was something worth waiting for.
He breaks out of his thoughts when your voice cuts in. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say gently.
He blinks, dragged from the memory. “…Hm?”
You gesture faintly to his glass. “You’ve had enough to drink, Varka. You shouldn’t be sitting here any longer—you should get home.”
Home. The word lands strangely. He barely recognizes it, even when it was all he had thought of while he was away. It doesn’t feel right being there, sometimes—not when he’s gotten used to hard soil under his back as he sleeps in a tent.
“One more round,” he says, “jus’ another glass.”
“You didn’t come see me,” you say quietly.
He flinches.
“You came back,” you continue. “Everyone knows you’re back. The knights know. The city knows. But you didn’t come see me. You didn’t even see me before you left to say goodbye.”
He can’t look at you. Because the truth is as simple as it is pathetic.
“I…couldn’t,” he says. “…Couldn’t.”
You frown. “Couldn’t?”
“Th’ scryglass,” he murmurs. “It…it showed me somethin’.”
You frown in confusion—of course you don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s all a bunch of nonsense to you coming from a drunk man. But his mouth can’t stop now that it’s begun.
“Showed me Mondstadt. A dragon. I fought it, y’know—won, too.” His jaw tightens faintly. “Then I was a hero.” The hero he did not get a chance to actually become. “It showed me what would happen if I stayed,” he continues, words slower now. Less steady. “An’… it showed me what would happen if I didn’t. There was…somethin’ in Nod-Krai. Would reach Mondstadt. Eventually.” He swallows. “I saw what I had t’ do—what I had t’ give up.”
Silence stretches between you. You don’t know what to say, how to make sense of what he’s telling you. But he continues before you get a chance to figure anything out.
“If I had seen you before I left…” His voice falters, just for a moment. Just enough to betray him. “I…I don’t think I would’ve gone.” The admission hangs there, fragile and terrible. He laughs roughly after, but there is no humor in it. “Pathetic, isn’t it? Grand Master o’ the Knights o’ Favonius…brought low by somethin’ as simple as a goodbye.”
Your expression softens just a fraction, but it only makes his chest ache more. And then, you whisper, “You should get home, Varka. I’m being serious—you’ve had a lot to drink.”
With that, you slowly stand, getting ready to leave. He watches you turn, and something inside him breaks. Because this is it—this is the life he chose. The one where everything he wants is not his, and everything he dreams of is just a sick, distantly wishful dream.
His hand moves before he can think. He catches your wrist again, and you turn back, startled.
“…Go out w’ me,” he says, “on a date. You ‘n me.” The words come out rough. Unsteady.
Your eyes widen in shock. “…What?” You search his face. “You’re too drunk, Varka. You’re saying nonsense.”
He would rather leave for Nod Krai again than see that doubt in your eyes. Doubt that he would want you—what a ridiculous thought, he thinks. To doubt that you are not all he’s ever wanted. He can’t blame you, of course, but the absurdity of the idea is too bitter to swallow.
“…Please…?” he says. So quiet, you can barely hear him. “S’all I wanted, y’know? Before I left, an’ stuff—thought maybe ‘t was too late when I got back.”
You stare at him for a long moment. Long enough that he feels every second like a blade. And then—
“…Okay,” you say. And then, after a moment of sitting with your decision, you smile. It’s a carefree little thing—stripped of all that doubt and underlying hurt. “Okay. I’ll go out with you. But first you need to get home. C’mon.”
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Sitting here, under a large tree at Windrise, the wind is gentler than he remembers. Or perhaps it has simply been far too long for him to remember correctly. Varka has stood in this place countless times before—for training, for duties, in passing, in leisure, in haste. But never like this. Never with you.
He shifts his weight slightly on the blanket, one knee drawn up while the other leg stretches out into the grass. His armor is gone, replaced with something simpler.
“This was a good suggestion,” you murmur, smiling at the view. “I don’t believe I’ve ever thought of having a picnic here.”
He hums, giving you a crooked grin. “Of course, this was a good suggestion,” he chuckles, “it was my suggestion, of course.”
He’s not sure why he suggested it. Perhaps it was a pathetic attempt to recreate the silly images he’s seen in his sleep—small, hopeful dreams dreamt in the reclusiveness of his own mind, where he is allowed to be what he wants: yours, a hero, a cherished citizen of Mondstadt who gets to stay home. These are all things Varka has always wanted to be. Things he has given up. And yet he clings to them, despite it all. The suggestion to come here tumbles past his lips before he can stop himself, before he can remember that dreams are not meant to be lived in.
You snort softly from beside him, adjusting the basket at your side. “Of course, Grand Master. How could I doubt your wisdom?”
He groans. “Don’t call me that, please. I hear that enough already everywhere else.”
“But you are that,” you counter.
“Not today,” he says easily, giving you a wink. “Today, I’m just a lucky man who was fortunate enough to convince a very lovely woman to accompany him.”
He says it lightly. Playfully. But he does not look at you when he does—or he’d have seen the way you flustered at being called a lovely woman. Instead, he fiddles with blades of grass between his fingers. Varka has missed the feeling of grass from his homeland—even something as common and mundane as grass is not the same in other lands.
You watch his fingers carelessly grab at a dandelion, feeling up its stem before pulling away. “…Did you know,” you begin softly, “people believe that during ancient times, when wine was first brewed from dandelions, it had a symbolic meaning?”
His breath catches. Not visibly. Not enough that anyone other than himself would notice.
Because he has heard these words before. Distant, echoed words that haunted him in his sleep, teased him with versions of his life he always thought were simply too out of touch for him.
He turns his head toward you slowly, brows lifting. “Oh?” he hums, forcing his voice to stay steady. “This sounds like the start of a history lecture.” You give him a look. He raises both hands in surrender, smiling. “I’m listening,” he promises.
But something in his chest has already begun to tighten. He remembers this—he remembers warmth. He remembers the wind. He remembers your voice, softer than anything else he’s ever heard, telling him a story about something small and stubborn and endlessly wandering. He remembers your touch and your fond, delicate eyes staring back at him.
And he remembers waking up alone every time.
You smile in satisfaction at his willingness before continuing. “There are many theories,” you say. “It is folklore, after all. Who’s to say which version is true?”
He leans back against the tree behind him, stretching his legs out further into the grass.
This is different than his dreams. In his dreams, he had been lying down. His head had been in your lap. He had belonged there without question. Now, he sits beside you instead. You’re not as fond of him now as you were then, and you aren’t as intimate with him either.
But you could be. The thought makes his head spin a little. You came here with him—agreed in a heartbeat when he asked for your time to spend with him, to do something romantic and not just as two friends who are simply catching up. And you are recreating his dreams, little by little—the same, but different all at once.
“Which version do you believe?” he asks quietly.
Your gaze drifts upward, toward the small, drifting seeds carried through the wind. “Dandelions travel far,” you murmur. “The wind carries them across countless places. They see many things—people, their lives, their memories.”
His fingers press faintly into the soil beneath the grass. The words are not exact. But they are close enough that his chest aches with recognition.
“There’s an old story,” you continue, “about a single dandelion seed that drifted in the winds longer than all the others. It passed through every corner of Mondstadt. It saw all of the people’s joys and sorrows.”
He smiles faintly. He knows this story—has heard it in your voice several times. He’d been under the impression that it ended somewhere far from here.
“Sounds like it lived a full life.”
You glance at him. “Don’t interrupt.”
He swallows thickly, wondering what’s real and what isn’t. Is this still reality? Will he wake up in his bed and get ready to bring you here in a little bit? Are his dreams taunting him yet again, even after he’s journeyed all the way home?
He doesn’t dwell too long. Instead, he presses a hand to his chest and says, “My apologies, madame—I won’t do it again.”
You continue with a roll of your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “After many, many days of journeying and watching all of the people of Mondstadt, the wind eventually urged the seed to settle. To grow somewhere and stop wandering. But it didn’t. Not at first. It wanted to keep going. To see more. To carry more memories with it.”
He exhales quietly through his nose. “…Stubborn thing,” he murmurs.
You look at him again. “Yes,” you chuckle.
The wind stirs. A dandelion seed catches briefly against his shoulder before drifting away again. In Nod Krai, he had not questioned it. He had accepted the taunting visions of what could have been his life without wondering if he’d made a mistake. Without wondering if they were still a possibility. Now, he is sitting beside you, close enough to hear your breathing and close enough to reach out and touch you—and he thinks maybe he has not given up all of his dreams. Not yet.
Maybe Varka has not lost that future. Maybe he has simply not reached it yet.
“Eventually,” you say, “it did settle. Right here, near Windrise. And when it finally grew, it was said to be taller and brighter than all the other dandelions. Perhaps because it carried all of Mondstadt and its people’s spirits. They say the first batch of dandelion wine was brewed from that same dandelion, and that it carried all the memories it had gathered, all the love it had witnessed. So, it’s believed that dandelion wine was made to enjoy during happy occasions worth remembering.”
This was always the part of his dream that had ached the most. The part where he had allowed himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he had stayed. That he had chosen differently. That he had not turned his back on the path that had everything he’d always wanted. The part that stung the most when he’d realize it was nothing but a dream when he’d crack his eyes open and only a tent was there to greet him in a distant, foreign land.
But you are here now. Real. Close enough that he can see the way the light catches in your eyes. Close enough that he understands, with a clarity that leaves him almost breathless, that you are not something he lost. You are not something he gave up. You are something he still has time to earn.
He clears his throat, stretching his arms behind his head to rest against them as he says, in what he hopes sounds teasing, “Did you bring dandelion wine, then? To celebrate the joy of going on a date with this legendary knight?”
You laugh softly. “I did.” You reach into the basket and pull out a bottle.
His eyes widen slightly, delighted. “Well,” he says, “how fortunate I am.”
You hesitate for just a moment before adding, “I’m sure people have offered you wine everywhere since you’ve returned, but still…it seemed appropriate.”
He watches you as you pour. The careful way you hold the bottle. The way the sun kisses your skin and warms it up. This moment had lived in his mind before it ever existed. Not exactly like this. But close enough that it feels less like a coincidence and more like mercy. Fate has had mercy on Varka, and he has never been one to argue with fate.
When you offer him the glass, your fingers brush his. He stills.
(It is difficult not to dwell on it for a moment—how easy and simple it was in his dream, just to touch you. He had reached for you without hesitation. Now, he is so careful. So grateful for accidental touches and so wishful that they would last a little longer. If only for a moment.)
You don’t pull away immediately. Neither does he. Finally, you release the glass and move to pour your own.
But it never happens.
Because Varka cannot endure this any longer.
His restraint snaps suddenly—so suddenly, that he almost doesn’t recognize it for what it is. Every chivalrous, righteous virtue he lives by as a knight to be a good, respectable man gets carried away by the wind, and leaves him stripped with nothing else but instinct. Instinct, and perhaps an aching longing that has been sharpened by years of absence, and then sharpened even further still by the unbearable reality of you being right here, within reach, and not his. The sharpness is too painful now—it slices him in ways he can no longer tolerate and move on from.
His hand moves before he can stop it. He catches your wrist—not rough, never rough—but with a firmness that startles you. You barely have time to react before he pulls you toward him, and then you are no longer sitting beside him. You are on his lap, your breath catching as the world tilts, as his arm comes around your waist to steady you, as warm and hard muscle shaped by years of battle and discipline wrap around you.
For a moment, he only looks at you.
His eyes search your face like a starved man. Like a lost man, even. He takes you in as though he is committing you to memory all over again, as though this, too, might become something he will only be allowed to revisit in dreams.
He should stop. He knows he should stop.
But he has spent years stopping himself, hasn’t he? Years choosing duty. Years choosing others and not himself. Years choosing to live with the quiet, gnawing absence of you, knowing what he could have had and yet, still choosing to walk away from it. He has spent years choosing to give up the future he has dreamed of for the sake of the future of his nation and his people.
He cannot do it any longer. Not when you are real instead of some figment of his imagination, and not when you are here, with him.
Varka has had many, many dreams of you—not all of them have taunted him with the images of your affection. Some have taunted him with the images of you moving on, looking elsewhere, finding someone else. Maybe that is why he did not find you when he returned. Why he waited for you to find him. Maybe that is why, all along, he has been scared to face you—too scared to learn that perhaps he has given up a life that you both could have shared and sent you on a path to a life that no longer has room for him.
But it does. You still have room for him, and he is done with no longer allowing himself the space to be there.
His hand rises to your face, and a calloused thumb brushes your cheek. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, though he doesn’t really sound too sound sorry at all.
And then he kisses you. Hard.
It’s everything he has denied himself, poured into a single, desperate press of his lips. His mouth finds yours with a force that is unbearably hungry. Hunger that has grown painful over years of restraint. He pulls you closer against him, his hand firm at your waist, anchoring you there as though he’s afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip.
Your lips are softer than he remembers in his dreams. Warmer. Alive beneath his. There is life to them, not some ghostly mimic meant to haunt him cruelly.
For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he thinks you might pull away. But you prove him wrong. You don’t. And when you finally gather yourself enough to respond, you lean into him instead of away. You kiss him back just as hard—just as desperate. And something deep in his chest aches more than it ever has.
His hand slides to the back of your neck. To keep you there, in place—right there against him, where you belong. To convince himself this is real, that he is not asleep in a tent, envisioning Windrise and you and your warmth. To convince himself that he will not wake up and feel the aftershocks of shame and bitterness and insufferably agonozing yearning.
He has kissed you in dreams before. Those had been gentle things. Easy and familiar and almost part of a routine. It had been so simple to just kiss you as he pleased in his mind, that it had made him feel helpless. He had walked away from what he’s always wanted most.
This is not gentle. He doesn’t have the luxury to take his time and be cautious with you when this could end in an instant. This is not part of his routine, and it may never be. So he takes advantage of it, as ashamed as he is to admit it. He pulls back only slightly, just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath uneven in a way no battle has ever managed to cause.
He searches your face again, as though waiting for you to change your mind. To regret this and regret him.
You don’t.
Instead, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer, kissing him just as hard. As if…(dare he believe such a bold idea) as if you have dreamt of this moment for years and years, as well.
“Forgive me,” he says again, his voice a rough, deep rumble as his lips press to yours again. Again and again and again and again. Hot, searing kisses are pressed to your lips as he whispers, “Forgive me,” between them.
“There is nothing to forgive,” you manage to whisper in between, somewhere along the way. And you kiss him, too. Again and again and again and again.
And after so long, Varka is home. His dreams are no longer just dreams.