The Muntjac lurches violently beneath my feet as I make my way to Quentin's cabin. Every step feels precarious on this flying death trap, but I need to see him. Margo mentioned he was looking for me, his voice carrying that particular edge of vulnerability I've learned to recognize over the years.

I find him curled in the corner of his tiny wooden cabin, looking smaller than usual against the plain walls. The ship pitches me back against the door the moment I click it shut, and Quentin lifts his eyes, those expressive dark pools locking onto mine.

"Hey," he says, and I press my body against the door, forcing a smile that I hope conveys casual confidence rather than the turmoil churning inside me."Hey. Margo said you were looking for me."

"Yeah, I..." He pushes himself up, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear in that endearing nervous gesture he still hasn't outgrown. "I was."

I narrow my eyes, crossing the small space between us. "Then why are you in here sulking in the dark?"

"I'm not sulking," he protests, but his expression betrays him—vulnerable, uncertain, achingly beautiful in the dim light filtering through the porthole.

I know that look. I've seen it before. In another life. At the mosaic. The memory hits me like a physical blow.

He takes my hand, placing it on his knee and squeezing so tightly I feel it everywhere—arousing a hunger I've been fighting for far too long. "Q..." I breathe, the single syllable hanging in the air between us like a live wire.

"Could we maybe just... pretend?" His fingers loosen but don't withdraw, his warmth seeping into my skin. "Just for an hour, El... I just..."

Every instinct screams at me to pull away, to protect myself from what we both want. But his touch, his proximity, the raw need in his voice—it's too much to resist. "I don't know... what you want me to say," I lie, knowing exactly what he's asking for.

Quentin meets my gaze, his cheeks flushed. "Would you just shut your eyes for a second?"

"Q, I—"

"El. Please."

How can I say no when he looks at me like that? When he sounds like that? Against my better judgment, I close my eyes. "Okay. Tell me why I'm doing this."

"Tell me what it smelled like," he says softly.

My heart constricts. "I don't know what you—"

"Don't bullshit me, El. You know what I'm talking about. The mosaic..."

The memory crashes over me—the alternate reality where we built a life together. Our home. "You know what Fillory smells like, Q."

"I'm not talking about Fillory." He pauses, the weight of what he's saying hanging in the air. "I'm talking about our home."

My palms sweat as I fight the urge to open my eyes, to see the expression on his face as he references the life we could have had. "I don't know... that we should be doing this right now..."

"Humor me," Quentin says softly, so softly I can barely hear him over the rushing of blood in my ears. "Tell me you don't think about it."

"I've been trying not to," I admit, the words escaping before I can stop them.