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Valarr did not know how he had ended up here.
No, that was not quite true. He knew precisely how. It had begun over breakfast three weeks ago when Delphine had discovered that the annual Renaissance Fair at Ashford Meadows was expanding into a full three-day festival, complete with jousting exhibitions, artisan markets, and a falconry demonstration. She had gasped so loudly over her tea that he had looked up from reviewing contracts on his tablet in genuine alarm, only for her to shove her phone directly into his face and assert that they simply had to attend in costume.
Everything after that happened with little of his control, or rather, he let it happen because it made Delphine happy, and that had become one of his life's purposes as of late.
The morning of the fair, Valarr found himself guided backwards until the backs of his knees met the oversized cream sofa in the apartment they shared overlooking Blackwater Bay, his girlfriend planting both hands against his shoulders and pushing with surprising determination until he sat.
Then she climbed into his lap without hesitation, one knee on either side of his hips as she held a black pencil aloft between two fingers, while he regarded it with growing suspicion.
His hands found her waist as she settled comfortably against him, and when he opened his mouth to object—to ask if perhaps pirates had survived perfectly well for centuries without cosmetics, or if this was a historical inaccuracy they were perpetuating—she silenced him before the first syllable escaped.
A single manicured fingertip rested against his lips, but it was Delphine’s smile that shut him up truly.
“I swear I will not blind you,” she promised sweetly.
Valarr glanced meaningfully at the blunt end of the pencil she was holding. “Well, that is rather reassuring.”
Her laugh bubbled out bright and musical, filling the apartment with a warmth that no amount of expensive central heating could imitate. “It'll look so, so good on you, trust me.”
“So you're saying I don't look good normally?”
“Shut up, pretty boy." Delphine rolled her eyes. "You're like the most beautiful person ever, but come on. All pirates wear eyeliner. It's part of the look.”
The first few times she had called him pretty boy, Valarr had assumed she was teasing him. It was usually accompanied by an irrepressible grin or delivered while she was fixing his collar or brushing an errant strand of hair back into place, and so he always responded in kind with some dry remark about her standards clearly being in decline.
To say he did not know he was good-looking would have been a lie, and he was not humble enough to tell it. He possessed mirrors. His parents were both objectively beautiful people, a fact the tabloids delighted in reminding the public every few weeks with headlines comparing old photographs to new ones, analyzing inherited features with scientific enthusiasm, and, now and then, they did the same to him.
He was well aware that strangers found him aesthetically pleasing. They judged the polished version of him that appeared in carefully lit photographs outside courthouses or beside his family at charity galas, all pressed suits, composed expressions, and impeccable posture. But there was a world of difference between strangers on the internet admiring the carefully maintained facade of Valarr Targaryen, and Delphine looking at him when he was in one of his old university shirts, hair still damp from the shower and glasses sliding down his nose because he had not yet put in his contacts, and cheerfully declaring, "Good morning, pretty boy!"
She had seen every untidy corner of him by now, the moments when exhaustion made him clumsy enough to knock over his own coffee, the rare occasions he lost his temper over unreasonable clients, and the nights he fell asleep halfway through reading paperwork and woke with creases pressed into one side of his face. No matter what part of him she saw, she looked at him with the same unguarded affection she reserved for the polished version the rest of the world saw.
Worse still for his composure, she was not sparing with her praise. Delphine complimented him with startling frequency and utter sincerity, sometimes sandwiched between fond jests, because she was the type of person for whom, if a thought wandered into her head, she saw no reason not to share it.
He never quite knew what to say in return beyond the occasional murmured "thank you, my love," because no amount of public attention or flattering articles had ever managed what her casual affection did so effortlessly.
He was drawn out of his reverie when she snapped her fingers in front of him.
"Earth to Valarr," Delphine sing-songed. "We can't take all day. I still have to do my hair and then wrestle with the corset because that alone will take forever."
"I can help," Valarr offered.
She shot him a knowing look, and his cheeks warmed. "You said that on Halloween, and then we were an hour late. So maybe not."
Ah, yes, that Halloween.
In Valarr's defence, he had approached the task with every intention of being helpful, but the simple act of standing behind her, carefully tightening the laces while catching glimpses of her skin between the ribbons, had short-circuited his brain.
"Daeron didn't mind that we were late to his party," he countered with a wink. "So I have no regrets."
Delphine narrowed her eyes. "Well, we can't have any distractions today. Come on, pirate up."
“And how many pirates have you met? Personally? To ask about their makeup routines?”
“Now you’re just being difficult.”
“I am simply expressing concern over my safety as my girlfriend approaches my eyeball with a sharpened implement.”
But it was true. He was simply contradicting her for sport, and they both knew it.
His reward arrived exactly as anticipated, and Valarr sighed when Delphine leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, tasting of strawberries and her signature lip gloss.
The instant she withdrew, he followed, leaning after her to steal another, but she retreated just beyond his reach, her green eyes glittering sternly.
“No.” She pressed a hand to his shoulder for good measure. “Sit still.”
And there it was, the real reason he’d agreed to all this. Not because he particularly wished to spend the afternoon pretending to be a pirate wandering through a fictionalized medieval market somewhere in the Reach, and certainly not because Matarys had laughed himself silly upon hearing the plan and declared he would pay good money to see pictures.
He had agreed because Delphine Fossoway possessed a smile against which all logic eventually surrendered.
His thumb resumed its absent circles against her side through the oversized black T-shirt she wore, though technically it belonged to him. Or it had once. Sometime during the previous year, it had migrated to her side of the closet along with half his sweaters, three button-ups, and an alarming collection of sleep shirts that she insisted were community property. She’d paired it with plaid pyjama shorts and fuzzy socks patterned with little apples, making her look as if she had forgotten to finish getting dressed from the neck down.
The contrast with the meticulous work she’d done on her face was startling.
She wasn't wearing her glasses, which meant she already had her contacts in, and green glitter shimmered across her eyelids under the afternoon sunlight spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows, with flecks of pink and gold catching the light each time she blinked, transforming her into some variation of a woodland fairy. Her earrings tinkled pleasantly, and the gloss coating her lips rendered him unable to pull his eyes away.
The urge to pull her flush against him and forget about Ashford Meadows completely became painfully tempting.
Unfortunately, she caught him staring, and a furrow formed between her brows. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're looking at me.”
Yes,” Valarr agreed with a smirk. “I do generally enjoy looking at you.”
Delphine’s ears went pink, and she pinched his cheek. “That won't work.”
“I wasn't attempting anything. I simply made an observation.”
“Flattery gets you eyeliner only. Nothing more.”
“Oh.” He tried not to let too much disappointment bleed into his tone. “I appear to have miscalculated.”
“Yep.” One hand cupped the side of his face with remarkable gentleness, and her palm was cool against his jaw, smelling of the lavender hand cream she used often. “Okay,” she murmured. “Close your eyes.”
Then she shuffled closer, and every muscle in Valarr’s body seized, making him inhale sharply, his hands tightening on her hips to keep her from wriggling anymore. The gesture was less for her benefit than for his own. She smelled infuriatingly wonderful, apples and cinnamon, and her perfume blended into something uniquely Delphine, a scent that lingered in his sweaters long after she borrowed them.
It made the already impossible task of sitting perfectly still considerably more impossible.
"Val, stop squirming!" she complained.
“I am not!”
The words had scarcely left his mouth before one knee shifted imperceptibly under her, earning him another pointed look.
“Liar.”
When she brought the pencil to his left eye, his eyelids betrayed him, fluttering at the unfamiliar sensation before the tip had even touched skin.
“Oh, for Seven's sake,” Delphine muttered, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh. “It's not going to attack you.”
She paused to kiss the bridge of his nose before steadying his face with both hands, her thumbs resting lightly under his ears, still unbearably tender, and Valarr tried very hard to focus on the rhythm of his own breathing to keep from losing it.
The pencil skimmed along his lash line, and his eye twitched again.
Delphine burst out laughing. “Gods, you are dramatic.”
“I dislike objects near my eyeballs, thank you very much,” he remarked dryly.
“All right,” she said after collecting herself from another fit of giggles, “look up.”
He dutifully tilted his head toward the ceiling.
“No.”
Valarr frowned. “I am looking up.”
“Not like that.”
“How else does one look up?”
“Just move your eyes, not your whole face.”
“I don't know what that means.”
She dissolved into giggles again, and Valarr corrected himself with exaggerated precision until she nodded approvingly.
“Perfect, thank you,” she said, and he received another fleeting kiss for his efforts, which made it all worth it.
The pencil traced lightly under his lower lashes this time, and he remained frozen, more from awareness of her than fear of the eyeliner itself. She was so close he could count every freckle scattered across the bridge of her nose if he looked straight ahead, so close that every breath she drew brushed warm against his face.
Finally, she leaned back with a sound of satisfaction and set the pencil aside on the coffee table. “There. Now, for the final step.”
“There are more steps?” Valarr demanded.
“Well, duh.”
Before he could ask what those entailed, she raised both hands and used the pads of her fingers to gently smudge the dark line she'd just created, softening the edges with practiced little strokes. Her fingertips skimmed under his eyes and along the corners, occasionally tilting his chin this way or that to inspect her work.
When she was finished, she sat back to admire her handiwork, but when her lips parted, she said nothing at all.
Valarr watched her with growing unease. "What?”
Delphine just continued staring.
“My love?”
Still nothing, and he sighed. “Have you accidentally made me resemble a raccoon?”
Delphine’s eyes finally snapped back into focus. “Nope.”
“No?”
“No.” She spoke breathlessly, genuinely taken aback by what she was looking at. “I think…” She paused again, searching for words and failing. “I think you may actually be too pretty.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“No, listen to me. This is unfair.”
“To whom?”
“To everyone. Girls would kill for those eyes.”
Valarr's expression did not change, save for the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Well,” he replied with characteristic sarcasm, “that is a bit of an exaggerated response. It’s just eyeliner.”
She shook her head. “No, seriously, it’s ridiculous. How are your lashes naturally so curled? And they’re longer than mine.”
“My sincerest apologies,” he snickered. “I get them from my grandmother, or so I am told, but I assure you, I had no hand in the matter.”
He expected an equally sardonic response, but all Delphine did was trace the line of his cheekbone, before her fingers drifted down the familiar contour of his jaw, lingered at his chin, then returned to brush under one eye.
There was no teasing left in her expression now, only that open admiration that always caught him off guard, and it sent his heart into a frantic staccato.
“You have very nice eyes,” she told him eventually.
Valarr grinned. "Thank you, my love."
And then he was pulling her close again, one hand sliding from the small of her back upward until his fingers disappeared into the loose waves of her hair, threading through the strands with instinctive familiarity. He paused only long enough to thank the gods that styling her hair was always the very last step in her getting-ready routine, which meant he didn’t have to feel guilty for ruining her work.
The realization dissolved the last of his restraint, and he met her lips with a kiss that was full of all the desire he had spent the past half hour trying to bury.
Delphine made the smallest startled sound against his mouth, and Valarr beamed when she leaned into him the moment he threatened to pull away. For all his reputation for self-control, she was the one flaw in his carefully maintained facade.
His teeth nipped at her bottom lip, a sharp, stinging sensation that was immediately followed by the soothing, wet heat of his tongue, and then he tilted her head back to give him better access to the sensitive line of her throat, his other hand sliding down to the curve of her hip, his fingers digging into her skin as he hauled her even tighter against him, letting her feel every inch of him, and sudden, overwhelming scale of his need.
He was painfully aware of the friction between them, of the way his body reacted to her soft form, the heat a heavy, pulsing ache that demanded more than just a kiss. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling her as if she were oxygen, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.
"We might be a little late to the fair, after all," he mumbled, both his hands making their way to her thighs, dragging her even more firmly in his lap so she could feel the hard, demanding length of him through their clothes.
Delphine’s breath hitched, and a whimper escaped her throat as her hips bucked involuntarily against him. "That's okay," she whispered, her voice a timorous thread as she pressed her forehead to his. "That’s okay. I don't mind…we can be a little late.”
Her words ignited a fuse, and his fingers slipped under the hem of her shirt to find the bare skin of her waist. When his fingertips skimmed the delicate curve of her ribs, a shiver raced through her, and she let out a soft, needy sound, her hands tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck as she squirmed harder against him.
"Please," she breathed against his lips. "Valarr, please.”
“Please, what?” he paused, his eyes shining with mirth. “Use your words, pretty girl. Tell me what you want.”
Delphine pulled back just enough to fix him with a mock sullen glare, her lower lip jutting out in a silent, beautiful pout that betrayed her frustration. Refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a verbal surrender, she let her hands wander downward, but the moment her bold fingertips grazed the cool metal of his belt, Valarr’s hand shot out, his fingers encircling her wrist and bringing her to a sudden halt.
"No," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with a dark, teasing patience as he held her hand in place. "I think I'm going to take my time."
Delphine let out a huff, wriggling against him in an attempt to reclaim control. "You're being unreasonable," she protested. "We'll be even more late then, and the falconry demonstration will be halfway over!"
"I thought you didn't mind being late," he countered, his thumb stroking the skin of her inner wrist. "In fact, I believe you said very explicitly that you didn't mind at all."
He pressed a slow, teasing kiss just below her ear before his thumb caught her bottom lip and tugged it down. "You're so beautifully impatient," he whispered, his breath hitching when she shifted again. "But I promise I'll make it up to you if we miss anything."
He moved with a deliberate, agonizing slowness, a strategist savouring the most crucial phase of a maneuver, knowing well enough that the anticipation was as much a part of her pleasure as the act itself.
He let her keep his t-shirt, not wanting to smudge the swirls of colour decorating her eyes, but when he reached for her shorts, Delphine intuitively lifted her hips, allowing him to peel the fabric away and toss it unceremoniously to the floor.
The sight of her in just his shirt and nothing else rendered him unable to breathe for several long moments. It was always like this, no matter how many times he'd seen her bare, and every single time, he was overcome with the urge to worship her, to trace every inch of her with his lips and tongue until she was nothing but a collection of exquisite, trembling sensations.
Valarr then made quick work of his own trousers, the contact of her bare skin against his an electric jolt that made him groan low in his throat. He could feel the warmth radiating from her, the frantic pulse in her neck that he wanted to graze his teeth against, and the way her body moulded itself to his.
"You are so perfect," he declared in a broken vow against the hollow of her collarbone, his palm sliding up to find the soft swell of her breast, his thumb teasing the peak under the shirt. "So incredibly, devastatingly perfect."
Delphine let out a breathless giggle, silencing him with a deceptively sweet kiss. "And you," she purred against his lips, her eyes dancing with mischief, "are talking way too much right now."
Without waiting for the clever retort she knew was brewing behind his teeth, she let her hands wander down again, her palms sliding over the taut muscles of his thighs until her fingers found the heavy, pulsing length of him. Then, without any further preamble, she guided him to her entrance, her breath stuttering as she felt the searing heat of his skin against her own.
The world narrowed to a single, white-hot point of contact when she lifted her hips to meet him, taking him inch by agonizing inch as she sank slowly. Her name fell from Valarr's lips in a fragmented whine, his head falling back against the couch, every shred of his composure surrendering to her.
When he forced himself to open his eyes and look at her, he saw that Delphine's own were squeezed shut, equal parts concentration and pleasure. She looked like a goddess, a being of divinity who had descended into his structured world to set it all on fire.
"God, Delphine, you're... you're…" he couldn't remember what he meant to say because just the mere mention of her name had her clenching around him, coaxing another splintering groan from his chest, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her damp forehead, his thumb lingering to trace the line of her cheekbone.
The friction was agonizing, a slow, torturous slide that made his teeth grate together, and every inch of her was a revelation, her hummingbird pulse mimicking his own as she arched her back and his muscles strained to meet her descent with an upward surge of his own.
The sweetness of the moment was still there, a golden thread of affection that bound them always, even when his gaze met hers, and his demanding mouth found hers again, kissing her deeply with every thrust of his hips, her short, sharp gasps fueling his own fire.
He was drowning in Delphine, and he never wanted to find his way back to the surface.
Valarr knew she was getting close when her movements became shallow and clumsy, and he increased the pace of his own to drive her over the edge.
"Yes, there," Delphine whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut as the first wave of her climax crashed through her, her nails digging into his shoulders as she came undone around him.
That was all the catalyst he needed, and he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his voice a mere shadow of itself as he spilled into her, a soft, desperate mumble of her name lost against her skin.
The silence that followed was the comfortable sort, and Valarr remained anchored to Delphine as he struggled to bring his racing heart back under some semblance of control. The intense heat that had consumed him moments ago was receding, leaving behind a profound, aching tenderness that felt even more vulnerable than the passion itself.
He felt the tremors still rippling through her slumped-over frame, and he tightened his hold around her, his hands smoothing over her back in slow, grounding strokes.
"Are you alright?" he asked, pressing a series of gentle kisses to her forehead, her temples, and finally, the tip of her nose. "Did I hurt you?"
Delphine let out a contented little sigh against his chest before lifting her head, drawing back just enough to properly examine his face. For a heartbeat, she simply looked at him, and then an incredulous smile spread across her own.
“No,” she said softly. “You didn't hurt me.”
Then her expression shifted, and her lips widened in a mischievous grin. “Oh.”
“Oh?” Valarr prompted.
She bit down on her lip, trying and failing to suppress another fit of giggles. “Your eyeliner is all smudged...and you've got lip gloss all over you.”
Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth before she held it up between them, and sure enough, there was a streak of shimmering pink smeared there.
Valarr's two-toned gaze flitted from her thumb to her lips sheepishly. “I suppose I owe you an apology, then.”
“For?”
“For smudging your lip gloss.”
Delphine nodded with exaggerated seriousness. "You do. The look took quite a while."
Valarr's grin widened. “My sincerest apologies, my love. You looked quite bewitching.”
The compliment sent a bright flush spreading across her throat, disappearing into the neckline of the now crooked shirt that had begun to slip off one of her shoulders.
“On the bright side,” he continued, his gaze sweeping over her face with careful inspection, “the rest of your appearance looks relatively undisturbed. Perhaps we won't be that late after all.”
The glitter dusting her eyelids was astonishingly intact despite everything, and only slight traces had migrated elsewhere, scattering along her jaw, down her throat, and across her cheekbones where his lips had worshipped, leaving behind an accidental constellation.
Delphine's eyes brightened. "Oh, it's probably that new setting spray Jess put me onto. She swears by it. Says you could last a marathon in it.”
“Why would you wear setting spray during a marathon?”
“A different sort of marathon.” The words were followed by a cheeky wink.
The realization dawned on him immediately, and he clapped both hands over his ears with a groan. “Gross.”
Delphine burst into laughter.
“I do not,” Valarr declared firmly through gritted teeth, “want to hear about my cousin's escapades with your best friend. Why am I being graced with this information?”
“Because you asked!”
"I did not, actually. You volunteered it. Gods, I would very much like my weekends to remain free of thoughts concerning Aerion.”
Delphine's grin softened. “If it makes you feel any better…”
“I sincerely doubt that it will.”
“…we've been telling Jess to dump him forever.”
Valarr dropped his hands from his ears and nodded sagely. “I second that.”
"You would vote to end a heartfelt relationship without hearing an explanation?"
"The word heartfelt cannot, in good conscience, be used in the same sentence with my cousin," he deadpanned. "Trust me."
Delphine leaned forward to lean her chin on his shoulder, humming noncommittally. "For what it's worth, Jess keeps saying he's gotten better."
“Has she perhaps developed a fever?”
"Oh, hush!" She swatted him half-heartedly. "At least your eyeliner is still perfect."
Valarr gave her a skeptical look. "It cannot be."
“It is. We don't even have to clean it up.”
“Are you sure I don't look like I got into a bar fight and came away with a black eye?”
Delphine studied him again with theatrical seriousness. “Nope.”
“No?”
“No, you look positively ravishing.”
Valarr let out a pained groan that was only half exasperation. “Don't talk about ravishing me.”
She blinked innocently at him, batting her lashes in a way that made him want to kiss her senseless again.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Because then I won't be able to hold myself back.” He glanced pointedly at his watch. "And then we'll be even more late.”
Delphine's eyes widened, and without another word, she slid off his lap, though not before pressing one last quick kiss to his cheek. The hem of his borrowed shirt brushed the tops of her thighs when she stood, and he had to force himself to keep his gaze on her face, watching her disappear across the apartment before he could even stand or catch up.
It took them a little over an hour to finally leave, but by the time they stepped into the elevator, their transformation was complete, the mirrored walls reflecting them from various angles.
And gods, Delphine could not stop looking at Valarr.
The black poet shirt she had insisted he wear fit his lean frame well, laced open at the throat to expose just enough collarbone to be distracting, the sleeves billowing slightly whenever he moved his arms. The eyeliner highlighted his mismatched eyes even more than usual, drawing attention to the striking contrast.
One eye was a clear, crystalline blue, the exact shade of a summer sky over her childhood home when the clouds had been chased away, and the other was a deep, rich brown, warm as freshly turned earth after rain, steady and grounding in a way that reminded her of orchards and forest paths and all the quiet things that endured. Separately, each eye was beautiful, but together, they fascinated her.
Sometimes, when he was reading beside her on the couch or concentrating on a case file with that familiar furrow between his brows, she would find herself staring and thinking how lovely it was that he encompassed the whole world in this strange little way. The sky and the earth met upon his face, two entirely different things existing side by side in perfect harmony, and perhaps it was terribly romantic of her, but she thought it suited him, because Valarr was composed of contradictions himself—both gentle and stubborn, reserved and endlessly patient, and practical while also being devastatingly sentimental.
It gave him the unmistakable air of a brooding, romantic hero from one of the old Reach period dramas her Aunt Lydia liked to watch, the kind who would duel for honour in rain-soaked courtyards and write poetry by candlelight.
Delphine did not even pretend to be subtle about her appreciation, and Valarr raised a brow curiously, as if to ask what had caught her attention.
Instead of responding to his wordless question, she stepped closer and rose onto her toes, her fingers sliding into his perfectly maintained hair, which he had, of course, styled back into his signature, gelled side part. Then, she began to undo it.
“You are demolishing approximately twenty minutes of effort," he chided sternly.
“You’re welcome,” she replied.
Delphine ignored what he said next to focus on running her hand through his hair, the streak of silver at his temple looking delectably rumpled as darker strands fell over his forehead. This close, she could see the silver streaks in his lashes and brows too, and truly, he was too pretty for words.
“There. Now you look like you're ready to star in the next installment of Pirates of the Narrow Sea." She stepped back to lift both hands and framed him with her fingers as though snapping an invisible photograph. “Pretty as a picture."
Valarr responded with a chuckle, reaching for her hand to pull apart her makeshift camera, tugging her back toward him before pressing a kiss to the backs of her fingers.
Outside, the parking level of the building was already coming into view through the widening glass doors, but for a moment, neither of them moved, still caught in the private gravity of each other’s hands. Valarr’s thumb brushed her knuckles, and Delphine squeezed his fingers back without thinking.
Their cars, when they reached them, looked comically out of place side by side. Valarr’s was a sleek, silver, vintage he'd inherited from his grandfather's collection, a vehicle that looked like it had never once experienced a careless touch in its life and expected valet service at every destination.
By contrast, Delphine’s sage green convertible—affectionately named Beetlejuice in its earliest days and then later shortened, inevitably, to Beetle—more accurately represented her tastes. She'd bought it several years ago, after her first big art exhibition, and then bugged Raymun to install the daisy rims to complete the look.
Without any apparent coordination, both she and Valarr reached for their keys at the same time, unlocking their respective cars with a chorus of electronic chirps before pausing and turning toward each other with matching expressions of confusion.
Valarr glanced between them. “I thought we were taking—”
“But, I thought… I wanted to drive.”
“You can drive mine.”
Delphine shook her head with a snort. "Val, I think I'm afraid to breathe too hard in your car."
Her words alarmed him, and his brows knit with concern. “You don’t have to be that careful,” he began earnestly, which made it worse because it meant the joke had flown straight over his head. “You know I don’t mind if you—”
“Or we could just take mine," she interrupted.
“If you’re certain…”
Delphine narrowed her eyes, placing a hand over her chest in exaggerated betrayal. “You’re embarrassed of my car, aren’t you?”
Valarr shook his head immediately. "Of course not, love."
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“It’s the only explanation. You don’t want to be seen getting out of my car.”
Valarr let out an incredulous huff of laughter, cutting off the petty argument before it could spiral further, and one of his hands came to rest at the small of her back, guiding her gently toward the Beetle and opening the driver's side door for her.
“Delphine,” he repeated with infuriating calm, “I am not embarrassed of your car.”
Well, she certainly wouldn't argue further when he said it like that, so instead, she rose on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Thank you."
“And you’re sure you don’t want me to drive?” Valarr asked.
“Does it bother you that much?”
“I did not say that.”
“I am a fantastic driver.” Delphine crossed her arms stubbornly.
“You are better than Matarys at least," he conceded reluctantly. "But my mother would be scandalized by the very notion. She would say, ‘Valarr Targaryen, you let your girl drive while you snored in the passenger seat like a good-for-nothing miscreant? I raised you better than that.’”
His voice had taken the impression of stern aristocratic disappointment, and it sent Delphine into a peal of laughter, her shoulders shaking as she grabbed his arm to keep her balance.
“Your mother would never say the word miscreant,” she wheezed between laughs.
"She most certainly would."
Delphine pecked his cheek again with a teasing grin. “I don’t mind you playing passenger princess."
Valarr’s lips twitched. “I know.”
There was no more debating after that.
The interior of the Beetle was, in true Delphine fashion, an organized contradiction, neat enough that everything had a designated place, but also lived-in enough that it could never convincingly pretend it belonged in some posh catalogue.
The space perpetually smelled like the inside of a bakery, the air freshener a combination of vanilla, apples, and cinnamon, and there was a crumpled tote bag tucked behind the passenger seat that still bore a smear of purple pigment from some long-forgotten project. The dashboard was clean, but the surface of the glove box was partially obscured by an ever-growing constellation of stickers.
When Valarr finally settled into the passenger seat, the adjustment required was extensive because the seat had been pushed too far up, his long legs pressing uncomfortably against the dash until he began methodically sliding the seat backward. Delphine, already buckling herself in, glanced over and winced sympathetically.
“I took Daella and Rhae out for ice cream the other day,” she explained. “Guess I forgot to put the seat back.”
Valarr looked up curiously. “I didn’t know you were babysitting my cousins.”
“Technically, Jess was supposed to, but then she had a work thing come up, and she’d already promised them an outing, so… oops. Don't tell your uncle, I don't think he's very fond of me.”
“Unfortunately, if Rhae knows, our relatives in Dorne probably know about it too by now.”
“Gods," Delphine groaned.
“But don't worry, my uncle thinks you're wonderful.”
She looked at him with an expression she usually reserved for pyramid schemes and suspiciously cheap furniture. “Sure. And I’m secretly a Braavosi finance guy.”
That caught him off guard, and Valarr burst out laughing. “A what?”
“A Braavosi finance guy.”
“I don't even know what that means.”
"It's a very specific species of guy."
"I was not aware they were taxonomically distinct."
"They are." Delphine held up a finger and began counting off invisible points in the air. "They exclusively wear quarter-zips or those fleece vests. And loafers, and watches that are more expensive than most people's rent. They somehow know how the stock market is doing at all times and say words like portfolio and acquisition in casual conversation. Their preferred sports are golf or tennis, and they're all about networking, and—"
She stopped speaking with a look of dawning horror.
"Oh my god," she whispered, pointing at Valarr. "You're a Braavosi finance guy. I'm just describing you."
Valarr looked offended. "I am not a finance guy!"
"You are finance-guy adjacent. You practically came out of the same catalogue."
"I am a lawyer," he added sullenly. "And I do not wear fleece vests."
He didn't have any further rebuttals to offer because, unfortunately, all the other traits she had described belonged to him.
Delphine gestured toward him with a giggle. "You own about six hundred variations of the same outfit, and you colour-code your ties. You are not winning this one."
Valarr crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Law is a far more lucrative and considerably classier profession."
"So your defence is to tell me you're richer than an average finance guy?"
"My defence is that my billing rate is superior."
"I hope you know you sound utterly insufferable right now."
"I've been called worse." Valarr reached over and flicked her forehead lightly. "I liked you better when you were calling me pretty boy."
"You can be both. My pretty, pretty finance guy whose actually not in finance."
She winked cheekily, earning another suffering groan as Valarr tipped his head back against the headrest, and she caught sight of the faint bruise she'd bitten into his neck earlier, exactly where his throat bobbed when he swallowed.
Delphine averted her gaze immediately, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.
Valarr's were still closed when he spoke again. "How did we get sidetracked into talking about Braavosi finance guys in the first place?"
"We were discussing your grumpy uncle and his extreme dislike of me."
Valarr opened his eyes and looked at her in disbelief. "I don't think there's a single person on Earth who could dislike you. Besides, you might genuinely be one of the few people he tolerates. He still has that ceramic planter you gave him. The one with the depiction of the Western Red Mountains."
Delphine's jaw dropped a little. "I thought he only accepted that to be polite."
“I assure you, Maekar Targaryen has never once in his life done something solely to be polite. It sits in the front entryway. Daeron almost knocked it over once, and he got all hissy about it."
"You're lying!"
"I would never lie to you, my love. I believe his exact words were, 'Watch where you're flailing about.'”
"I swear, I thought he hated it. I was so nervous, I didn't even know what to get him in the first place. What do you get a man who has everything? Your family is impossible to shop for, I hope you know that."
"And we thank you for your patience with us, truly. But I assure you, my uncle appreciated your present, as well as the lecture explaining the historic significance of blue-glazed ceramics from ancient Mesopotamia."
Valarr's eyes glittered with humour, and Delphine made a strangled sound, leaning forward until her forehead gently thunked against the steering wheel.
"Please do not remind me of that. I tend to ramble when I'm nervous."
"And when you are not nervous," he pointed out truthfully.
She lifted her head just enough to glare at him. "He looked like he wanted to kick me out right then and there."
Valarr snorted. "What? No. That was his look of approval."
"You're lying to me again."
"I am not."
"You seriously expect me to believe that your uncle was deeply invested in Mesopotamian pottery?"
"I promise."
"Did you see that scowl? That was a look that said, 'You have five seconds to shut up before I move countries and change identities.'"
Valarr burst out laughing. "I promise you that is not the case."
Then, before she could dissect the matter further, he leaned over to connect his phone to the car’s speaker system, the chime of Bluetooth pairing followed by the soft surge of a playlist coming to life.
Delphine caught a glimpse of his lock screen when he set it down in the console, a shy smile tugging her lips at the sight. It was a picture of her, taken at the Highgarden Tulip Festival a few weeks earlier, and it made her look significantly better than she actually did. Of course, he was an excellent photographer too. There was very little that Valarr Targaryen was not capable of, after all.
A familiar song blared from the speakers then, one of her favourites for longer trips, and she did not even bother pretending to be surprised by the fact that it was already saved in his phone, because at some point during their time, he had quietly accumulated an archive of her entire musical history.
Delphine began to hum along under her breath, her fingers tapping lightly against the wheel in rhythm as she finally guided the Beetle out of the parking space and into motion, the city of King’s Landing stretching out before them in layered sprawl.
Next, Valarr opened the glove compartment, but she barely spared him a glance, too focused on merging neatly around a slower-moving lorry, though she knew precisely what awaited him inside. The compartment was predictably overstocked with a steadily replenished assortment of sweets she had started keeping for the occasions she found herself with his younger cousins or Jess's little sisters.
Valarr navigated the improbable mountain of sugar with practiced patience until he found the slim case tucked neatly in the back, withdrawing it to take out her sunglasses, and then sliding them onto her face gently without disrupting her driving, making sure no strand of hair got caught beneath the arms before settling them comfortably over her ears.
“There,” he murmured.
She beamed. “Thank you.”
He closed the case again and returned it to the glove compartment before hesitating for a moment. “Is it alright if I do something real quick for work?”
Delphine glanced at him briefly with a shrug. “Of course.”
He nodded once before pulling out the tablet he carried everywhere, its familiar weight settling into his lap as he opened what looked suspiciously like a case report. His expression was focused, indicating that his mind was already halfway through three arguments and a negotiation she would only hear about later in fragments over dinner.
Eventually, the city gradually gave way to the outer roads of the Crownlands, the traffic thinning as they approached the ancient arterial route that the city folk still called, with varying degrees of affection and complaint, the Roseroad. It split cleanly from the Kingsroad Freeway just south of King’s Landing, peeling away toward the southwest edge of the Kingswood, where the trees grew denser and older, their shadows stretching across the asphalt in long, shifting patterns as they passed beneath them.
Then the landscape opened and changed again, the dense green of the Kingswood gradually giving way to broader stretches of farmland and river valleys as the Roseroad carried them deeper into the Reach.
Delphine drove with one hand lightly resting on the wheel, making a deliberate effort to remain silent. Not because she had run out of things to say. Quite the opposite, really.
Her mind was an inexhaustible machine for observations, and the long stretches of countryside only fed it. She wanted to ask Valarr whether the negotiations he'd mentioned over breakfast last week had finally concluded, whether his mother had ever settled the argument with father over that antique wine cabinet, and whether he'd remembered to call Daeron back after missing his last two attempts. She wanted to tell him about the elderly woman she'd seen last Tuesday buying enough sunflower seeds to feed an army of birds, and about the pigeon that had wandered into the courtyard outside her studio and refused to leave until she bribed it with crackers. She wanted to point excitedly at the bright orange hatchback overtaking them in the next lane simply because it reminded her of a pumpkin, and at the crooked little willow tree leaning over a creek in the distance because it looked like an old man trying to nap standing up.
She wanted to narrate every inconsequential thought that wandered through her head simply because he was there to hear it.
The rational part of her mind intervened immediately, telling her that they'd already talked about work and he most certainly did not need commentary on every odd-shaped bush in the Reach. Valarr was working, and she would not let herself disrupt his peace.
It was ridiculous, really. They lived together now, shared groceries and laundry, and sleepy mornings where she stole sips of his coffee despite insisting she preferred tea. They had been together for a year, and in all that time, Valarr had never once looked annoyed when she rambled. He listened to stories about the strange patrons at her exhibitions with the same attention he gave his court rulings, he let her explain obscure painting techniques over dinner, and nodded thoughtfully through twenty-minute analyses of why one shade of green was objectively superior to another. He asked follow-up questions and remembered every answer.
Nonetheless, the apprehensive, stubborn part of her refused to be convinced, because she kept thinking he was just doing it to be polite.
That was the sort of man he was.
Valarr attended Matarys’s increasingly absurd parties despite preferring quiet evenings at home. He accompanied his cousins on spontaneous road trips, midnight movie marathons, and impromptu escape rooms with the same composed willingness, offering the occasional amused jest but never complaint. He showed up to family gatherings with flowers for everyone, and he was patient beyond words.
So perhaps the fact that he never interrupted her was not evidence that he enjoyed listening. Perhaps it was merely evidence that he would never dream of telling someone they were talking too much.
The notion settled unpleasantly in her chest despite every piece of contradictory evidence she possessed.
It was stupid.
Jess had said as much, telling her that if Valarr truly didn't enjoy her company, he would have dumped her long ago, which sounded harsh, but was just her way of trying to knock sense into her.
Unfortunately, anxious thoughts were rarely interested in evidence.
They sprouted all on their own, fed by old insecurities and watered by overthinking until they were undeniably convincing. Delphine's came from all the years of teachers asking her to stop chatting, classmates growing impatient when she veered off topic, and even her gallery assistants smiling politely while glancing toward the clock every time she accidentally launched into an enthusiastic spiel about Byzantine mosaics or Italian Frescos.
So she drove quietly and swallowed every nonsensical observation before it reached her lips.
Next to her, Valarr continued reading, but then, after a while, without lifting his eyes from the tablet, he reached across the center console until his fingers found her free hand resting there.
He intertwined their fingers together without a word, absentmindedly tracing his thumb across her knuckles, as if knowing just what she needed to silence the worried little voice in the back of her head.
"Are you alright?" Valarr asked after another twenty minutes, finally looking at her. "You aren't singing along."
Delphine glanced at him quickly before returning her eyes to the road. “No, it’s okay, I don’t want to disturb you."
Valarr looked concerned. “I thought you enjoyed this music. I can put something else if you like?”
“I do like it,” she replied, with too much enthusiasm to seem realistic, then sighed, conceding defeat to a particularly humiliating memory. “But Matarys shared a video of last week’s karaoke hangout in the group chat, and I think it’s time I gave up on that pipe dream.”
“What, no.” He shook his head in alarm. “The video was adorable.”
Delphine shot him a look. “As my boyfriend, your opinion is rather biased."
"No, that just makes my opinion especially qualified."
“I love you, but let us not lie to ourselves. According to Raymun, I sound like a labouring horse.”
Valarr paused to process that with utmost seriousness. “I did not know labouring horses sang.”
“Neither did I. We learn something new every day.”
That drew a reluctant chuckle from him, and he abandoned his tablet to give her his undivided attention, his fingers still loosely curled in hers.
"How's the wedding planning going for your brother?" he asked after a while. "Have they decided on a date?"
Delphine grinned at the mention. "Oh yes, I was meaning to ask you if you'd be free to be my plus one next month. Father thinks it’s too soon, but Raymun’s got his mind completely made up. He’s already booked the orchard at New Barrel for the ceremony. He says that's going to be their new home too, and Rowan's looking forward to it."
Valarr frowned thoughtfully. “And your father's objection is based on timing?”
“Mostly.” Delphine resisted the urge to gesture with her hand as she spoke, because one was glued to the steering wheel and the other in Valarr's grasp. “He says it’s rushed, but I think he’s just uncomfortable with how certain Raymun is. Like, there’s no dithering, no negotiation, no ‘are we absolutely sure.’ He just decided, and now it’s happening, and Father doesn't know what to do with that energy.”
"I see."
“But Rowan is good for him. They're lovely together, and she's asked me to be her maid of honour, because she doesn't have much in the way of family. And I told her, of course, it would be my honour. I've always wanted a sister.”
Valarr looked at her with a warm smile. "Are the rest of your family being as accommodating?"
"Aunt Lydia thinks it’s a shotgun wedding," Delphine huffed. "She thinks Raymun got her pregnant and they’re rushing the wedding to cover it up.”
“And are they?”
"Who cares? I mean, they haven’t said a word, so I’m not going to speculate, and Aunt Lydia’s a crabby bat who likes to spew venom. She’s probably just annoyed she can’t bribe someone to marry Steffon.”
“I think my Uncle Maekar might have had that problem,” Valarr snorted. “Bribing someone to marry his son.”
Delphine shook her head resolutely. “What? No—Daeron’s lovely, and I'm pretty sure he and Amaryllis had a secret court wedding that they just haven't told anyone about yet. Have you seen them?"
When she glanced sideways at Valarr, he was giving her a deadpan look, and she sighed with realization.
“…Oh. Right. Wrong son," she amended sheepishly.
Valarr exhaled through his nose, amused. “Yes.”
"There probably will be some bribery involved there. Everyone knows Jess isn't the marrying type. She’s very ‘marriage is a patriarchal social construct’ about it. Said if she ever gets married, it’ll be via administrative error.”
Valarr didn't respond to that, and Delphine assumed he was likely thinking about something work-related again, his gaze distant and contemplative.
When he spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Do you think that?”
“Think what?”
He did not say anything.
“That your uncle will have to bribe my best friend into marrying his most problematic son?” she guessed after a moment. “Maybe. But it isn't really my business to say so.”
The corner of Valarr's mouth lifted in what threatened to become a smile, but it never quite reached the point of laughter. “No,” he said quietly. “About the marriage thing.”
“The marriage…oh.” She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel unnecessarily, buying herself a few seconds to think. “Well… it's hard to disagree with Jess when she presents all the facts, you know. She's very thorough about it.”
"I suppose." He sounded disappointed.
Delphine shook her head quickly. “But, uh, no. I think it can be sweet. Finding someone to share your life with. And then when you do… I suppose timing doesn't really matter. If they're the one, then they're the one. So why wait when you already know? If my brother is happy, I'm super happy he made up his mind sooner rather than later.”
Silence settled between them again, long enough for Delphine to overthink every word she'd just blurted. He would probably think she sounded idealistic, and that she romanticized things more than they deserved, believing relationships could survive only on affection and determination.
Jess called her a sap. Raymun called her an optimist. Her father, with considerably more gentleness, remarked that she had inherited all of her late mother's hope and very little of her practicality.
She wondered what Valarr thought, and whether he assumed she was naive when she intended to be sincere.
Because she truly was being sincere, and would it sound so utterly foolish if she admitted, even if only to herself, that she wanted to marry him?
She could picture it with embarrassing clarity—slow Sunday mornings and grocery shopping, and him reading case files at the kitchen island while she painted nearby, and arguing over where to hang new artwork because he insisted walls could become cluttered while she insisted bare spaces were lonely.
She imagined continuing exactly as they already were, just forever.
A year wasn't very long to most people, but to Delphine, it felt impossible that she'd ever been a person who hadn't known Valarr, and if it didn't work out, she'd be absolutely devastated.
He was still holding her hand.
Only now, he was fidgeting with her fingers. The habit ran in the family, apparently, because she'd seen his father do the same during long dinners, endlessly spinning his wedding band when conversation slowed.
Valarr did it too, and when left to his own devices, he rolled the thin silver ring he wore around his thumb until someone asked if he was nervous, at which point he invariably stopped.
Months ago, Delphine had discovered that he seemed equally content fiddling with her jewelry instead, and she rather enjoyed watching him gently rotate them around her fingers while reading contracts or waiting at traffic lights.
Currently, his attention was focused on the little moonstone ring he'd given her for her birthday last year, turning it around her ring finger slowly.
“You think that if someone knows…” He rotated the ring another fraction. “…waiting isn't particularly important.”
Delphine shrugged. “I suppose not.”
Valarr did not speak for a long time afterwards, but then he murmured, almost to himself, "Yes, I've always thought so too.”
He offered no explanation beyond that.
Unfortunately, they did indeed miss the falconry demonstration, arriving just in time to watch the handlers leading the last of the birds away. Valarr checked the program pamphlet he'd swiped at the front entrance and apologetically confirmed what was already painfully obvious.
"Forgive me, my love. I didn't think we would miss the whole showing," he said.
Delphine took his hand and tugged him down to kiss his cheek. "Oh, there's so much more to see at these things. One missed event is not the end of the world."
And sure enough, the joust was already assembling. Delphine pulled him toward the grandstand that overlooked a long stretch of enclosed field bordered by painted wooden barriers and fluttering banners in every imaginable colour. Families crowded the benches with paper cups of cider and baskets of roasted nuts, children balanced on their parents' knees with wooden swords clutched in their fists, and musicians somewhere nearby filled the air with cheerful pipes and drums.
The knights taking part in the lists emerged to enthusiastic applause, riding magnificent horses draped in embroidered caparisons, their costume armour gleaming brilliantly under the afternoon sun.
Delphine watched them briefly before leaning closer toward Valarr. “Gods,” she whispered, “it must be terribly hot to move about in all that in this weather.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It does appear quite uncomfortable.”
“I think I'd faint.”
“I suspect most people would.”
She nudged his arm cheekily. “Maybe you should take up jousting.”
Valarr looked aghast. “No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“I doubt I'd be very good.”
“You're competitive and coordinated, and you already play your posh people sports.”
"Tennis and golf are not posh people sports," Valarr protested.
“That's exactly what a posh person would say," Delphine snickered.
“You're getting all your information from films again.”
"I promise they're very educational."
Valarr simply pressed a kiss to her temple in response, and she fell silent, tucked against his side as the first horn sounded and the joust began in earnest.
Several knights lost their weapons or lost their balance, and the audience erupted into delighted screams every time fragments of painted timber flew through the air. When the final round concluded, one victor remained, the triumphant knight wheeling his mount gracefully before cantering toward the front rows of the spectators.
Valarr watched curiously as the man stopped directly next to their section, removing his helmet with a flourish before raising it toward Delphine.
“Well fought for thee, fair lady in green!” he announced loudly.
Delphine's ears turned pink as she stood to allow the unabashed victor to crown her with a woven wreath of blue blossoms, thanking him with a kind smile.
Several minutes later, when they made their way back down from the stands, she plucked the wreath from her own head to place it on Valarr's.
“There," she said, brushing a dark strand of hair away from his forehead. "It matches your eye, and looks way prettier on you!"
Valarr felt heat creep across his cheeks as he ducked his head sheepishly, raising his hand to remove the wreath, but she caught his wrist before he could.
Then, Delphine tapped the floral circlet already resting in her own curls, the pink blossoms and trailing ribbons that formed part of her costume. “I'd look a little ridiculous wearing two, so you should keep that one.”
“I don't believe anyone has ever crowned me with flowers before.”
“An absolute fucking travesty,” she maintained, even when Valarr's eyes widened at her swearing. "You deserve all the flowers."
Then she fished out her phone from the little embroidered pouch hanging at her hip, muttering, "Hold still. New wallpaper," before snapping the picture.
Valarr barely managed to make a sound of surprise before she looked down at the screen and sighed dreamily. "Gods, you look like a woodland prince who'd offer travellers cryptic advice and then disappear into the forest forever."
After she tucked the phone away again, he stepped forward, one hand sliding around her waist before the other followed, drawing her gently against him until scarcely an inch remained between them. The movement was so natural now that Delphine came without resistance, her free hand settling lightly against the front of his shirt.
Then he lowered his head and kissed her, lingering long enough to make her smile into it. When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against hers, and he regarded her with that sincere fondness she was forever accusing him of hiding behind an overly composed exterior.
"I thought we were going for pirate," he murmured.
"Well," she declared matter-of-factly, brushing an imaginary speck of pollen from his shoulder, "you have range. Pirate one minute, mysterious woodland prince the next." She tilted her head critically, studying him to mentally sort through costume possibilities. "Actually...next Halloween we should try vampire."
Valarr let out a resigned sigh that contained not even the slightest trace of genuine objection. "Should we?"
"Definitely. You already have the jaw for it."
"I was unaware that was a prerequisite."
"It's the most important prerequisite. And we'll get you one of those dramatic capes and ruffled shirts. Perhaps some tasteful fake fangs too."
Against his better judgment, Valarr found himself smiling. "If I agree, will you stop planning my wardrobe an entire year in advance?"
Delphine reached up to straighten one of the blue flowers in his wreath, ignoring the question. "You're going to look spectacular."
The rest of the afternoon proved far more enjoyable than Valarr expected. Not that he had anticipated a miserable time—anything involving Delphine could never be—but Renaissance fairs occupied a category of experiences that had simply never intersected with his life before. His childhood had been full of corporate galas in King’s Landing, charity auctions and fundraisers hosted in museum wings and historic manors, and family obligations that required careful table manners. A sprawling festival in the Reach filled with costumed performers and adults pretending they lived several centuries in the past was new territory.
Delphine, meanwhile, seemed to have been born specifically for occasions such as this. Whatever strange reserve had possessed her during the drive had vanished after the joust, and she had returned to her natural state of delightfully chatty.
Valarr was relieved, because this version of her was his favourite.
There was something fundamentally wrong about a silent Delphine, and he had not realized how much he missed her constant stream of observations until it returned in full force.
Now she pointed out everything that caught her eye, and apparently, everything caught her eye. She had already commented on a particularly handsome horse, a child dressed as a wizard whose fake beard kept slipping off, three different dogs in costume, and a cloud that she insisted resembled a dragon eating soup. Valarr had looked up at the sky and informed her that it, in fact, looked like a juggling rabbit, which earned him a kiss before she told him he had an overactive imagination.
By the time they reached the artisan section of the fairgrounds, Delphine had begun acquiring treasures at an alarming rate. It started innocently enough with an elaborately designed scented candle that smelled of pomegranates and white gardenias, which she claimed looked like something his mother would enjoy. And she was right in a way, mostly because Valarr's mother would likely enjoy anything given to her if she was told Delphine had picked it out.
After that came a carved wooden apple no larger than his palm, which she declared would look perfect on their bookshelf, a jar of peach preserves, a package of wildflower seeds for her balcony garden, and a hand-bound sketchbook with thick cream-coloured pages.
Without discussion, every purchase migrated into Valarr's possession, and he carried the growing collection without complaint, content to watch her flit from stall to stall like a butterfly in a garden.
The food stalls were his particular favourite. The eyeliner escapade had resulted in him skipping breakfast, so it was he who insisted on trying nearly everything the fair had to offer.
The honey cakes dusted with powdered sugar earned his immediate approval, as did the grilled peaches drizzled with herb syrup and the roasted almonds coated in cinnamon. The fresh berry lemonade was not his favourite, but Delphine was more than happy to finish his even before he asked her to, knowing from the wrinkle in his nose that he found it too sour.
The onion relish was the worst of all, and Valarr was convinced that no reasonable person should voluntarily consume such a thing, but Delphine looked so excited while purchasing it that he accepted a sample.
"You hate it," she lamented after watching him struggle to swallow a bite.
"I don't hate it," Valarr lied, trying to keep a straight face. "It is simply…an ambitious flavour."
Delphine nearly choked laughing. "An ambitious flavour? That is the weirdest thing I've ever heard!"
But she did thankfully refrain from buying a jar, even if the woman at the stall was particularly persistent.
In fact, Delphine seemed incapable of passing another human being without somehow befriending them. Over the course of the afternoon, she knew the names of three candle makers, complimented a blacksmith on his false beard, discussed embroidery techniques with an elderly seamstress, and complimented a pair of hand-painted leather boots belonging to a stranger dressed as a hedge knight.
Valarr rather liked watching people brighten under her unwavering attention, counting himself among the lucky few who held a permanent place in her heart.
Later, while waiting in line at a popular skewer stand, they were approached by a group of younger girls wearing costumes similar to Delphines, and they all pointed at her eagerly.
"Look! She's a fairy too!" they exclaimed.
The girls gaped at her with open admiration, and Valarr understood the sentiment. She'd somehow become even prettier throughout the afternoon, her moss green skirts and translucent sleeves floating around her in layers that resembled flower petals, while hints of blush pink peeked through the folds whenever she moved. Gold embroidery wound across the bodice in delicate vines and blossoms, and tiny pearls caught the sunlight like drops of morning dew. The floral circlet resting on her head had begun to loosen slightly during the day, allowing a few wisps of hair to escape around her face, and combined with the glitter still dusting her cheekbones, she looked like spring personified.
The girls twirled in circles to show off their costumes, and when they urged Delphine to do the same, she obliged, before spending the next ten minutes explaining how she'd made the various pieces herself.
Then she insisted on entering them in a costume contest, where she won third place and a basket of even more peach preserves for Valarr to carry around.
The first-place winner had been a young man dressed as a dragon with massive mechanical wings that unfolded autonomously with a series of clicks and whirs. It was an engineering marvel to behold, and Valarr thought absently that Aerion would likely appreciate the ingenuity that had gone into it.
By the end of the day, the fair had shifted into its evening rhythm, the setting sun bleeding crimson and gold into the sky as lanterns were lit along the pathways. Even Delphine had begun to slow down, making her last-minute rounds for gift acquisition.
There was a hand-illustrated grimoire of fairytales for Rhae, bound in deep green leather embossed with curling silver vines, and a set of colourful artisan dragon eggs for Egg, each one glazed in emerald, ember-red, storm-blue, and gold-speckled, resting in a moss-lined wooden box. For Daella, she selected a brooch shaped like a starburst flower, enamelled in pink and gold, and then a calligraphy bookmark for Aemon whenever he was on break next from boarding school.
Valarr was already accustomed to her mental catalogue of his extended family and their increasingly specific gift requirements.
The next stall was glasswork, where Delphine picked out a miniature ferret, translucent amber and green running through its body like trapped sunlight.
“For Jess's collection,” she said fondly.
"She doesn't seem the sort to collect glass animals," Valarr mused.
“It started as a joke," Delphine explained. "I got her a frog at a fair back in college because she said she hated frogs, and I thought it would be funny. But she kept it, so now I get her a new animal every time I find a stall. She displays them in her office. She has a whole menagerie."
Next, she chose a miniature wooden trebuchet for Matarys, one that fired little cork projectiles, and then for his uncle Rhaegel's twins, there was a dragon tooth pendant and a music box painted with stars.
“It is remarkable,” Valarr observed, “how you managed to acquire gifts for nearly everyone you have ever met in a single afternoon.”
“It’s not that difficult," she replied nonchalantly.
“I would argue it is.”
“You just have to listen to people.”
“Some of these people you have met only a handful of times," he pointed out.
"Once enough, if you pay enough attention." She smiled knowingly, already moving toward the next stall.
This habit of hers was the most consistent thing about her. In the time Valarr had known her, he had come to learn that she refused to arrive anywhere empty-handed. Even the first time he had brought her to meet his family, she had come armed with gifts, the most notable one being the porcelain dish painted in the image of the water gardens of Dorne, which was intended for his grandmother. The fact that Delphine had never actually set foot in Dorne did not deter her dedication.
Even the notoriously difficult to please and allergic to sentiment in all its forms Uncle Maekar had received a piece depicting the Western Red Mountains because Valarr had once offhandedly mentioned that he'd visited there with his late wife.
Valarr was quite certain that she was the favourite at family gatherings, and his little cousins probably looked forward to her visits more than they did his, because she had a way of making people feel seen and she never gave away anything without sparing considerable thought to the person receiving it.
The drive back from Ashford was just as silent, though this time, it was a more comfortable one. Valarr insisted on taking the wheel, and for once, Delphine did not argue, offering him a sleepy smile when she handed over the keys and folded herself into the passenger seat. She kicked off her shoes to tuck her feet under her and curled sideways, and Valarr could tell, even without looking too closely, that she was hovering at the edge of sleep, her eyelids dipping lower every few minutes before she forced them open again with stubborn determination simply to keep him company.
“How did you end up enjoying it?” she asked slowly. “Did you like it more than you thought you would?”
“Yes,” he answered, glancing at her before returning his eyes to the road. “More than I expected.”
“Would you go again, then?"
The answer was obvious. "Of course. If you wanted to."
A satisfied hum escaped her lips, and after that, her questions became less frequent. The countryside blurred past them in soft silhouettes, but Delphine's attention remained on Valarr instead of out the window, as though he alone was keeping her awake.
By the time they reached their building, she was still conscious, but only just, held together by affection and sheer unwillingness to stop looking at him. When he parked, she attempted to unbuckle her seatbelt, but he shook his head firmly.
“Stay there,” he told her. "I'll get you."
Delphine blinked at him slowly. “M’not asleep,” she mumbled, though her head had already begun to sag against the seatbelt strap.
“I know, my love.”
Valarr stepped out of the car before she could argue further, walking around to the passenger side in a few brisk strides to open her door. Then, he reached in to gather her floral heels, before sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her waist, lifting her easily. She reacted by looping her arms loosely around his neck, her head settling against his shoulder.
“You don’t have to—” she started, but it dissolved halfway into a yawn.
“I know,” he repeated. "But I want to."
He nudged the car door shut with his hip and carried her toward the elevator, and by the time they were back in their apartment, she had already fallen asleep, her breathing even as he set her down on their bed.
Their home was warmer than it had ever been when he first moved in alone. Potted plants lined the window sills—her doing—some trailing ivy that spilled lazily over colourful clay pots, while handmade ceramics filled shelves that had once held only books and neatly stacked files. His mother liked to joke that now it actually looked like someone lived here.
Valarr's routine for nights like this was a simple one. First, he washed his hands, returning to the bed with a package of Delphine's makeup wipes to remove the remnants of glitter from her face. She stirred at the touch, but did not awake, only leaning into his hand as he wiped away the last traces of the day from her skin.
When he finished, he brushed a stray strand of hair away from her cheek and spoke softly. “Delphine.”
She made a sound of acknowledgment, but her eyes remained closed.
“You need to take out your contacts," he prompted again.
There was a sleepy, reluctant hum as he helped her stumble toward the dresser where she kept her contact solution, ready to steady her if she tipped too far, but she managed to remain upright as she fumbled through the drawers. Her movements were slow and uncoordinated, and when she reached for a lower drawer instead—one she very rarely used—Valarr gently caught her wrist.
“Not that one,” he said too quickly.
Delphine's eyes half-opened in confusion, but there was no real alertness behind them, and he hoped she would be too sleepy to interrogate him about it the next morning.
“Here,” Valarr said, guiding her hand to the correct drawer and retrieving the solution himself. “I’ve got it.”
She accepted it without question, already turning her attention back to her contacts, and he stood there until she finished, watching her carefully, only relaxing once she had safely stored everything away and gone back to bed.
His gaze remained on that bottom drawer though, where, hidden under layers of ordinary clutter, was the ring his mother had given to him a month ago. A ring he had carried in his pocket for several days before hiding it there, realizing that simply having it on him made him think about it too much. A ring Matarys had laughed at him for over drinks, calling him a sentimental disaster, and a ring his father had already given his blessing for.
Since then, he had been trapped in an exhausting cycle of certainty and doubt. There were moments where he could picture it so clearly, it hurt—Delphine in every version of a future he could imagine without effort.
And then there were the moments where he wondered if a year was enough. If wanting something intensely meant it was the right time to ask for it. If he was mistaking comfort for permanence, or habit for certainty, and if she would one day look at him and think she had been too quick to decide on the rest of her life.
But their conversation in the car had brought him peace, and helped him realize that maybe she saw the same future he did, and there was only one inevitable answer to that inevitable question.