The rain beats steadily against the cave entrance as Eliot finishes his spellwork, conjuring two elegant Adirondack chairs from the rock and moss. I watch him, mesmerized by how easily magic flows from him - how naturally he commands this world. The fire he started crackles between us, casting amber light across his features and making his dark curls glow.

"These look great," I say, meaning it sincerely. There's something about seeing Eliot like this - relaxed,专注, completely in his element - that makes my chest feel tight.

He gives me that look - the one that starts as a smirk but softens around the edges, like he's seeing something no one else does. "Sit, Q. We've got time to kill before the storm passes."

I settle into my chair, acutely aware of how close we are. The cave isn't large, and the chairs face each other with barely two feet between us. Outside, thunder rumbles again, but I barely notice it. All my attention is on Eliot.

He stretches his long legs toward the fire, his red silk shirt catching the light. "You know, this is the first real break we've had in months," he says quietly, his tone different from his usual sarcasm.

"Yeah," I agree, "it's nice. Just... sitting. No monsters, no politics."

"No Fillorian citizens to accidentally offend," he adds with a smirk, referencing the incident that made me stop attending court sessions.

I laugh, but it comes out strained. "I still can't believe I laughed when that guy called me 'your most glorious majesty.'"

Eliot leans forward, his expression suddenly serious. "Q, that guy was ridiculous. And you belong in court. With us."

I look away, staring into the fire. "I don't know about that. I'm hopeless with people."

"You were never hopeless with me," he says simply.

His words hang in the air between us. The rain seems to fall quieter, the fire slows its crackling, and suddenly the space between our chairs feels charged with something I've been trying not to name for years. When I look back at him, his eyes are dark and intense, fixed on mine. He's not smirking now. He's not teasing. He's looking at me like he sees straight through to all the places I've been hiding from him.

"Eliot..." I whisper, not sure what I'm warning him against - or begging him for.

He doesn't answer with words. He just stands slowly and crosses the small space between us, his movements deliberate. When he reaches my chair, he doesn't sit. He just stands between my knees and looks down at me, his expression unreadable.

My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure he can hear it. Every instinct tells me to look away, to joke, to break this tension before it breaks me. But I can't. I've wanted this for so long - longer than I've been willing to admit, even to myself.

Eliot's hand moves to my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. His skin is warm against mine, and I lean into his touch before I can stop myself.

"Tell me to stop," he breathes, his face inches from mine.

I don't. I can't. Instead, I reach up and wrap my fingers around his wrist, holding him there. The message is clear: don't stop. Please don't stop.