Page 17 of At The End There Was You

“It’s comfortable.”

“It’s bizarre.”

He smiled at her again and just held her gaze for a moment before sighing. “I might have to let you go for tonight, Winter. It’s getting late.”

Her head whipped towards the grandfather clock, her eyes wide when she realised it was nearly midnight. “It really is late.”

“Good night, Winter.”

“Good night to you, too, Azriel,” she said, backing away towards the exit a little slower than usual. She couldn't figure out why she was so reluctant to leave.

Four days until the end

She was late. Ten whole minutes late. Was she sick? They would have told him if she was sick. Miriam very reluctantly entered the library in his presence, but she would have told him regardless.

The door cracked open, and footsteps thudded towards his direction. Winter stopped a foot away from him, her auburn hair blown in the wind, and she only wore one sleeve of her white robe cover and was struggling to put on the other because her hand clutched a thick book that refused to squeeze through the arm hole.

Azriel stood and grabbed hold of the book and then guided her arm through the sleeve before buttoning it correctly. Her chest and shoulders rose fast. Too fast, he noticed. Did all humans normally breathe this fast? His hands slowed on the last button fastening near her neck and he allowed himself to graze the back of a finger over her skin. When she sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes lifted to her turbulent ones.

Her voice came out all breathy and low when she said, “Your hand is cold.”

At her words, he did it again, he brushed his fingers against her skin. “You are too warm perhaps. Weren’t you running?”

“I was, but you’re also very cold.”

“And you’re very late.”

“I know.”

“It pleases me when one acknowledges their mistake.” He stepped closer, unable to escape the opportunity to find out the scent of her skin too, not just the feel. His lungs filled with the scent of flowers. She smelled like a meadow and sunshine. “Are you trying to please me, Winter?”

Her throat moved against his fingers that were still resting against her skin. “I have a reason for my tardiness,” she said, ignoring his question.

Azriel lifted between them the book he’d pried off her hands. “Does this hold the answers?”

She frowned at him. “Are you certain you’re not reading my mind?”

“There is so much I want to know about that mind. Do you think I wouldn’t have taken the chance and read it corner to corner instead of asking questions which you are starting to rarely or vaguely answer?”

Her cheeks stained red and Azriel fought to urge to lift his fingers there next. “There wouldn’t be much to read. I don’t have many answers to your questions, that is why I don’t answer.”

“Nonsense. You don’t have answers that are perhaps deemed appropriate, adequate, pleasant, or agreeable, and you’re trying to be mindful of your teachings here. But you have answers even to questions that don’t exist.”

“How do you know that after knowing me for merely three days?”

“How about you answer that?”

She frowned at him, and he liked that a lot. “Because you're a Mage?”

“Hm. You could've done better as a first attempt. Should I start pitying you? It is a shame you have such a mind to share, and you share so little.” He didn’t intend to mock her, but she might have thought so because she glanced away from him.

“How does this help in preventing doom?”

“It might, might not. Are you willing to not answer something that could be so detrimental?”

She huffed. “Don’t pin this on me.”

“Then answer.”