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“Are you all right?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

He turns away rather quickly to put the kettle on. I decide not to push it, mostly because I’m fairly certain I know exactly what that flare meant, and I’m not sure either of us are ready to say it out loud.

I drape my clothes over the backs of two chairs by the radiator, the one that never quite works properly but manages a decent amount of warm air anyway. Then I settle quickly into a chair near the counter, because the apron does not cover my bare ass at all.

I watch him move around behind the counter as if he’s worked here for years, as I sit, apron tied at my back, bare feet cold against the tiled floor.

He makes the tea properly. Hot water first, two sugars, then milk. The exact way I like it, no instructions given. He hands it over along with an almond croissant from this morning’s leftover batch, still soft enough to be worth eating.

“You remembered how I like it,” I say, quietly, wrapping both hands around the mug.

“I pay attention,” he says.

“Apparently,” I say.

I take a sip. “And you have perfected the art of tea making.”

He flashes a pleased grin at me, and I feel my heart melt a little more.

We sit at one of the little tables, rain streaming down the big front windows, the shop dim and warm and entirely ours. For a while neither of us says anything. We just exist together in the quiet.

“The throne,” I say eventually, because someone has to, and it’s clearly not going to be him and I can’t bear it one moment longer. “Felix told me. Everything. He intimidated Dis into spilling the beans.”

Something shifts in his face, careful and guarded. “I did not want you to hear it from someone else.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me yourself?” I say as I squash down a little flicker of hurt.

“Because saying it aloud makes it closer to true,” he says. “And I have not yet decided what to do about it.”

“Is there anything to decide?” I ask. “If Night steps down, and you’re the only one the realm will accept?”

“There is always something to decide,” he says, low. “Even when every option is unbearable.”

“Whoever takes that throne has to be able to give it an heir.” I say it to the empty coffee shop, since it’s easier than saying it to him.

Dark looks away. “Yes.”

Silence grows. Neither of us needs to say it.

“What would you choose,” I ask, quiet, “if you could?”

He’s quiet for a long moment, turning the question over the way he turns over everything, slowly, thoroughly.

“You,” he admits, and there’s something raw in the admission, like it costs him something to say it out loud. “I would let thousands suffer. Make hordes of younglings orphans. Just to have what I want. And by that, I make myself unworthy of you. For that is not a choice you could accept.”

Something tight squeezes around my heart. Breathing is a great deal more difficult than it was a moment ago.

He’s right. And it’s wrong. And it’s terrible and wonderful all at the same time. Dark wants me. Enough to turn away from a throne. Enough to harm his people. I shouldn’t like that, but I do. However, what I like even more is that he’s not going to. Because he believes in decency and the greater good.

The rain gets louder, or maybe the silence just makes it seem that way. I become suddenly, acutely aware of how little space is actually between us, how the apron leaves rather a lot of me exposed to a room that’s gone very warm despite the storm outside.

He’s looking at the apron again. Looking at the parts of me that the apron doesn’t cover, which is most of me. His eyes do the thing again, flaring brighter, for longer this time. He doesn’t look away fast enough to hide it.

“You keep doing that,” I say, quietly.

“Doing what,” he says.