The ride in the carriage was far from easy. Not even the finest-built ones could handle terrain like this.

"By the gods," Denetta tsked, standing with her back arched so as not to hit her head on the wobbly ceiling. She peeked her head out the window, the wind harsh and snow already beginning to fall lightly, stinging her cheeks with its cold touch.

"Aaron!" she called out, but after a second's wait, it was clear he couldn't hear her over the howling wind, his mufflers and scarf wrapped around him like some freezing man indeed.

"Gods—" she muttered, shutting the window sharply and turning back to her wife. Her heart sank again at the sight of her face, the familiar weight of disappointment settling in her chest.

A rainfall, a wound, even a bad fall, those things Denetta could handle by mending or shielding her. But that dull expression on her wife's face made her want to stop the carriage and turn back entirely, the silence between them heavier than any storm.

She sat down beside her, leaving just enough space to be respectful, and stole a glance. Her features so heavy, so dear which stirred storms in Denetta's mind, her fists clenching as she shook her head, refusing to let her thoughts go too far into despair.

This "honeymoon," as she called it, was nothing but a way to spend more time with her beloved, to coax her into speaking, into opening up. Denetta's world was calmer with her. But every time their eyes met, Denetta faltered, looking away in the blink of an instant, afraid of what she might see there.

She had never felt so weak. Her body ached with longing, her mind swirled with imaginings, dreams of the sweeter moments she longed to share with her wife. Those lingered the most, like half-remembered songs.

Her hand drifted absently down her own thigh, lost in thought. Then the carriage jolted over a large rock, and her body slid against her wife. Instinctively, her hand shot to her wife's thigh, gripping it for balance. She didn't even notice what she'd done until Aaron's voice cut through the thundering of wheels.

"Sorry! Roads rough, ye? We almost there!" he shouted in his thick accent, barely audible through the carriage walls.

Denetta glared at the small sliding window above the opposite seats before it clicked shut again, and she exhaled sharply, her breath visible in the cold air of the carriage.

Two feelings warred in her chest; guilt at overstepping and anger at the situation that had brought them here.

Her grip tightened slightly. She stared at the floorboards until she felt it, the heat of her wife's skin beneath the fabric, warm even through the cloth. Slowly, she looked at her hand, then met her wife's eyes, her own filled with a mixture of surprise and embarrassment.

Her hand flinched back in embarrassment at the uncalled-for touch. "I... I'm sorry. I didn't notice—I was lost in thought." Her thumb rubbed against her palm in a nervous caress, unsure of what to do. This wasn't planned. She hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable.

"We'll be nearing the palace soon," she murmured, closing her eyes for a moment. She pinched the bridge of her nose to ease the tension building there.

Bringing her here to such a quiet place should have felt right... but now Denetta realized it also felt like pushing her, like forcing an intimacy they hadn't yet built.