Page 66 of Honeyfires

"I noticed."

"Petra."

"Vera."

She bit her lip. The attempted indignation collapsed entirely. Her arms slid around my neck, her damp skin cool against my jacket, and when I kissed her properly, she made that small sound I always felt everywhere.

"You're exhausted," she murmured against my mouth.

"I'm fine. I got you a cake."

"You drove directly from a forty-eight-hour fire to a bakery."

"The bakery was on the way."

"It is not on the way."

"It was on the way to you," I said, "which is the only way that matters."

She pulled back and looked at me with the expression she wore when I said something she wanted to devour me for. "You're going to be the end of me," she said quietly.

"Likewise." I pulled her closer. "Come on. I have something to show you."

"I'm still not wearing anything."

"I'm aware of that, too."

She laughed an unguarded laugh, and I lifted her because it was her birthday and I could, and she made a token protest that neither of us believed and let me carry her naked body down the hall, firewoman-style.

She saw the candles first. Thirty small flames reflected in her eyes, the cake on the nightstand, the wrapped box with its red bow beside it.

"Petra," she breathed.

"Make a wish."

She looked at me for a long moment, eyes brimming with tears. Then she leaned toward the cake, closed her eyes, and blew every candle out in one breath.

"What did you wish for?" I asked.

"Can't tell you."

"It's already true," I said. "Whatever it was."

She turned to look at me, something shining in her eyes. Then she spotted the box. "Can I—"

"It's your birthday."

Her hands weren't entirely steady as she pulled off the bow, tore the paper, and lifted the lid. Then her face went scarlet from the throat up in approximately one second—a new personal record even for Vera, who blushed with impressive speed and dedication.

"Oh my god," she whispered. Then, with significantly more volume, "Oh my god, Petra."

I was laughing. I couldn't help it. The harness lay in the box, black leather and polished hardware, alongside the deep purple silicone we'd spent an extremely memorable evening selecting together three weeks ago, increasingly brave with shiraz and each other.

"We talked about it," I said, composing myself with some effort. "But if you've changed your mind—"

"I haven't." She looked up at me, cheeks scarlet. "I really, really haven't. I just can't believe you actually—" She covered her face with both hands. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten."

"I don't forget the things you want."