Page 70 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
His eyes flick to mine, steady, unreadable. “What comes next.”
The steam from my tea curls between us, faintly scented with chamomile. My stomach knots. “And?”
He sits up a little, resting his forearms on his knees. “Returning to Protheka is still possible.”
I freeze, the mug halfway to my lips. “Possible?”
“Not easy,” he says, voice low. “But possible. There are still gates I could open, ways to cross back without drawing too much attention.” He pauses, watching me carefully. “It would… mean giving up everything we’ve built here.”
The words land heavy. “Everything we’ve built,” I repeat, setting the mug down before I drop it. “Like it’s just some… project we worked on together?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he says quickly, his tone sharper than he probably intends. “But going back would mean severing ties. All ties.”
I can’t stop the tight laugh that escapes me — not because it’s funny, but because it’s absurd. “You’re talking about it like it’s a choice between two equally reasonable options. Do you even want to go back?”
His gaze flickers, just for a second. “There are… obligations. Claims I never formally renounced.”
“And here?” I ask. “What do you call this?”
He’s silent for a beat, long enough that I can hear my own heartbeat. Finally, he says, “Here is… different.”
I shake my head, leaning back against the wall. “I don’t want you to leave.”
The words come out before I can soften them, before I can make them sound less raw. And maybe that’s good, because they hit him like I’ve thrown something across the space between us. His jaw tightens, but not in anger — more like he’s trying to keep something in.
“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “If I stay, it means secrecy. It means danger shadowing every step we take.”
I laugh again, but there’s no humor in it. “You think I don’t know that by now?”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion, but in that way he does when he’s taking the measure of something. “Then you’re saying you’d choose this. Even if it means… being tangled in my world for the rest of your life?”
I meet his gaze, steady. “I’m saying I don’t care what it means. I just—” My throat feels tight, the words catching. “I don’t want you to go.”
The silence that follows is thick, almost tangible. His eyes hold mine for so long it feels like the rest of the room drops away — the hum of the heater, the faint sounds from the hallway, even the ticking of the old clock on my desk.
Then he moves. Not suddenly, but deliberately, shifting closer until he’s in my space, until I can feel the warmth radiating from him. He doesn’t touch me at first, just watches me like he’s searching for cracks.
His hand comes up, fingers brushing the side of my jaw. “You may not realize what you’re binding yourself to,” he murmurs.
“Then tell me,” I whisper back.
His thumb traces lightly along my cheekbone, the calluses on his hand catching against my skin. “My world doesn’t forgive. It doesn’t forget. If you stand beside me, there’s no stepping back.”
I hold his gaze. “Then I won’t step back.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to argue — to try to talk me out of it, to protect me in that frustrating way that feels more like shutting me out. But instead, something in his expression loosens, just a fraction.
And then he kisses me.
It’s not urgent, not like some of the other times. It’s slower, like he’s memorizing the feel of it, the taste of it. Like he’s marking this moment as something separate, something we can’t undo.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips. “Then we stay,” he says, like it’s a vow.
I don’t say anything. I just close my eyes and lean into him, letting the steady weight of him press away the fear for as long as it will last.
Because he’s right — there’s no stepping back now.
The conversation unspools into something quieter after that.
