"Are you all right?" he asked.
Sylvia turned her head slowly.
That was a mistake.
Thomas was too close. Of course he was too close. He had taken her from the doorway, removed her from Rina’s reach like a diplomatic object under threat, and still had one arm around her waist as if releasing her had not yet become a priority.
His dark brown eyes were on her face.
Sylvia felt every thought she had ever had abandon her out of professional embarrassment.
"I am fine," she said quickly, finding the tailoring of Thomas’s coat very interesting all of a sudden.
Thomas did not look convinced.
"I am fine," she repeated, which somehow made it worse.
"You are shaking."
"I am experiencing several strong opinions at once."
"About Rina?"
"About Rina. About you. About the fact that you knew where I lived, which is reasonable but still very alarming when combined with your shoulders."
Thomas blinked once.
Sylvia shut her mouth.
Then opened it again because apparently survival had left the room with Rina.
"I did not mean your shoulders are alarming in a bad way."
Sylvia’s face heated so violently she wondered if Rina had left a candle burning somewhere.
"I should stop speaking."
"No," Thomas said at once.
That made her still.
His hand shifted slightly at her back, loosening enough to let her step away if she wanted.
She did not.
"I am fine," she said again, softer this time. "Rina only accelerated several emotions I was not prepared to submit for review."
His mouth almost moved.
"She should not have taken your phone," he said.
"No."
"Or embarrassed you."
"No."
"Or threatened to date you."
Sylvia looked down. "She was teasing."
"I know."
"You came anyway."
Her fingers tightened against his coat. "Why?"
Thomas was silent for a moment.
"Because I did not like hearing someone else say they would take you to dinner."
Sylvia stopped breathing.
"And because I wanted to see you," he added.
"You could have said that in a message," she whispered.
"Sylvia," he paused, amused, one brow raised, but Sylvia was pinning one of the rank embroideries on his uniform with her gaze as if it owed her money. "Look at me, please."
"I am," she said, not moving at all.
Thomas laughed under his breath, warm enough that Sylvia’s entire nervous system filed a complaint.
A second later, a large, warm hand touched her chin, gentle despite the size of him, and guided her face upward.
Thomas was smiling.
Not much.
This was Thomas Lancaster, and apparently his emotions had to pass through several military checkpoints before reaching his face.
But he was smiling, and Sylvia’s stomach could qualify as a butterfly farm at that point.
He bent down until his face was almost touching hers.
"May I kiss you?"
Sylvia smiled like a fool.
"Yes."
She knew the answer had come too fast because Thomas’s smile deepened by the smallest fraction, and that fraction was enough to make her consider whether knees were truly necessary for human survival.
"I mean," she started, because apparently her dignity had not died cleanly but was twitching on the floor, "yes. That was a yes. I answered quickly because I had already formed an opinion. Several opinions, actually, and—"
Thomas kissed her.
The world did not stop, but Sylvia’s awareness of it certainly did.
His mouth was firm against hers, and when she parted her lips on a sigh, he deepened the kiss with a groan that vibrated through her entire body.
Rina’s advice about breathing through her nose briefly surfaced before Sylvia’s brain short-circuited entirely. One of Thomas’s hands slid up her back to tangle in her hair, tilting her head just so. The other remained at her waist, holding her steady as the world tilted.
When he finally pulled back slightly, they were both breathing heavily. Sylvia’s fingers had somehow tangled in the front of his shirt, and she could not remember deciding to do that.
She looked down at them.
Then up at him.
Then down again.
Apparently her hands had opinions.
Many opinions.
"I am sorry," she whispered, not moving her fingers at all.
Thomas’s gaze dropped to where she was holding him.
His expression remained calm, but his breathing did not.
That was dangerous information.
Sylvia immediately wanted to keep it forever in a small locked box inside her chest.
"Do not be," he said.
"That sounds very generous from a man whose uniform I am currently assaulting."
"You are not assaulting it."
"I have creased it."
"It survived worse."
"Battle?"
"Rohan military laundry."
Sylvia blinked.
Then laughed.
It came out soft and startled, and Thomas looked at her as if the sound had been worth crossing the corridor, threatening a princess, and ruining every careful boundary he had tried to keep from the moment he got to know Sylvia that night months ago.
Which was unfair.
He should not look like that.
He should return to being a polished stone wall immediately before Sylvia does something irrational, like kiss him again without permission, or ask him to stay, or write a message to Rina apologizing for underestimating her methods.
Then, from the corridor, Rina’s voice floated through the closed door.
"Did she breathe?"
Thomas closed his eyes for a second.
Sylvia saw the exact moment his patience ceased being a civilized military resource and became something much older, darker, and considerably less interested in diplomatic immunity.
"Princess Gregoriana," he said.
His voice was calm.
On the other side of the door, Rina went silent.
Sylvia, still holding the front of Thomas’s uniform as if it had personally wronged her, looked up at him.
"Tom—"
"Fuck off."
The corridor died.
There was one small sound outside the door.
A tiny, sharp inhale.
Then Rina, who had been raised by Minerva, Otto, Tyana, Arion, and an entire bloodline of beautiful territorial predators, reached a conclusion with admirable speed.
She was fucked.
Possibly dead.
Definitely in danger of being carried back to the palace by her collar if she lingered even one second too long.
The next sound was a rustle of fabric, one hurried step, then another, then the unmistakable click of shoes retreating down the corridor with the urgency of a princess who had suddenly remembered she had a loving family, unfinished responsibilities, and no desire to be murdered outside Sylvia’s apartment for the crime of asking about breathing.
Sylvia stared at Thomas.
Thomas stared at the closed door, expression unreadable, jaw set with the grim discipline of a man who had decided not to chase a royal woman down the hall only because Sylvia was still in his arms.
Then Sylvia laughed.
It broke out of her before she could stop it, sharp and bright and so startled that she had to press her forehead against his chest because her face had gone unbearably warm.
Thomas looked down at her.
"I apologize," he said.
That made it worse.
Sylvia laughed harder.
"You apologize?" she managed while wiping tears of laughter out of her cheeks.
"Yes."
"She left like the palace was on fire."
"She should have left earlier."
Sylvia clutched his uniform tighter and tried to breathe. Unfortunately, Rina’s advice about breathing through her nose chose that exact moment to return, and she nearly collapsed into another fit of laughter.
Thomas’s hand settled at her back again, large and steady.
Sylvia’s fingers loosened on his shirt, then tightened again because her hands, apparently, had selected a political position and intended to defend it.
"Stay the night," she said, because her brain was clearly on vacation.
Tom’s eyes widened.
Sylvia saw it. Worse, she understood what her words implied a full second after she said them.
Her soul stopped laughing.
Her body, tragically, did not leave the room.
"I mean," she said quickly.
Thomas did not move.
That made everything worse.
"I mean... obviously, I know what that sounded like." Sylvia’s face heated so violently she wondered if she could set fire to the curtains by looking at them. "Not that I am saying it cannot mean that. It can. In general. As a concept. For people. Other people. Or us. Not immediately. Unless... no. Not unless. I am going to stop before I am arrested by language itself."
Tom blinked once.
Sylvia released his uniform with one hand so she could cover her face.
That was a mistake, because the other hand remained attached to him with the determination of a minor political faction, making the gesture look less like retreat and more like she was attempting to hide from him while keeping property rights.
"I meant," she forced out through her fingers, "that I do not want you to leave."
Tom’s hand moved slowly from her back to her wrist, his fingers curling around it with careful warmth. He held it there, as if giving her time to remember she was allowed to breathe without Rina’s supervision.
"Sylvia," he said.
That was unfair.
Her name sounded different when he said it like that. Lower. Careful. Almost rough around the edges, as if he had to hold the rest of the sentence back with his teeth.
She lowered her hand.
Tom was looking at her with such restraint that she felt both safe and doomed.
"I need you to be clear," he said.
"I know."
"Not because I want to refuse you."
Her heart stumbled.
"Oh."
His thumb brushed once over the inside of her wrist.
"But because if I misunderstand you," he continued, "I will not forgive myself."