Chapter 15 Falla #2
There's teasing in her tone, lightness I've rarely heard from her.
But tonight it's different. Like she's relaxed enough to play instead of constantly bracing for threat.
The shift makes something warm unfurl in my chest—pride maybe, or satisfaction that she feels safe enough here to lower her guard.
That I helped create that safety.
The hall gradually fills as more clan members arrive, the noise level rising to near-overwhelming as conversations layer over each other.
Serving vessels get passed around—roasted meat and root vegetables, bread still warm from baking, fermented drinks that Ursik's already consuming with concerning enthusiasm several tables over.
Kai and Saela claim spots nearby, the two of them wrapped up in their own conversation, barely noticing the surrounding chaos. Watching them makes my chest ache with something I don't have words for—longing maybe, or recognition of what I might have with Ressa if I don't fuck it up.
If she keeps wanting this. Keeps wanting me.
The uncertainty eats at my usual confidence like acid through metal. I know healing. Know how to assess injuries and create treatment plans and manage pain. This—whatever exists between Ressa and me—follows no diagnostic criteria I've been trained to navigate.
She said she wanted me. But I'm not sure if that was just in the moment. Until she heals. As a bedmate and nothing more. What if I push too hard and she retreats? What if the kiss was an aberration brought on by festival atmosphere and rainbow-induced euphoria rather than genuine attraction?
"You're thinking very loudly," Ressa observes quietly, her brown eyes studying my face with unnerving accuracy.
"Just considering logistics."
"Logistics." She doesn't sound convinced. "For what?"
Gift presentation timing. Making sure I don't say anything awkward when giving her the bracelet. Figuring out if kissing you again would be welcome or overwhelming.
"The exchange process," I lie smoothly. "Want to make sure we follow proper protocol."
"Liar." But she's smiling, the accusation carrying no heat. "You don't care about protocol."
She's right. I don't. What I care about is the gift tucked in my pocket and whether she'll understand the meaning behind each carefully chosen charm. Whether she'll recognize the hours I spent selecting components that represent everything I can't figure out how to say with words.
Safety. Protection. The promise that I'll stand between her and harm.
The promise that she matters.
Bronn stands eventually, his massive frame commanding attention without needing to raise his voice. The hall quiets gradually, conversations tapering off as clan members turn their focus toward their leader. I'm surprised he's the one standing and not Drogath.
I guess everyone has gotten deeply invested in the festivities.
"Tonight we celebrate partnership," he begins, his deep voice carrying easily across the space. "The bonds we've strengthened through shared challenge. The gifts we offer symbolizing commitment to continued growth together."
The speech continues—something about prosperity and fortune and the symbolic meaning of exchange. I stop listening, too aware of Ressa sitting beside me, the gift in my pocket feeling heavier with each passing moment.
This matters. The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity. What happens in the next few minutes actually matters to me in ways most things haven't for years.
I need her to like it. Need her to understand what I'm trying to express through metal and stone and careful construction.
Need her to know she's important.
Bronn finishes speaking and the exchange begins, pairs throughout the hall presenting gifts to each other with varying degrees of ceremony.
Some couples make elaborate speeches. Others offer simple exchanges without commentary.
The variety suggests there's no single correct approach, which should be reassuring but somehow makes the uncertainty worse.
What if I do this wrong?
"Should we—" Ressa starts, then pauses, her hand moving to the bag she brought with her. "Do you want to go first or should I?"
"You choose."
She pulls a wrapped bundle from her bag, the fabric green with blue threading—colors that look familiar though I can't immediately place why. Her hands shake slightly as she unwraps it, revealing—
A hand-knit wrap. Deep green and blue yarn woven in intricate patterns that must have taken hours of careful work. The colors are mine—my eye color rendered in textile form.
She made this. Spent time creating something specifically for me.
"I know it's…practical," Ressa says quickly, misreading my silence as disappointment. "But I thought—you're always working outside in cold weather and I wanted you to have something warm and the colors reminded me of you and—"
I take the wrap from her hands carefully, my fingers tracing the tight, even stitches. The yarn is soft, high quality, probably acquired through trade. The pattern incorporates symbols I vaguely recognize—protection and strength woven throughout the design.
She thought about this. Considered what I'd need and what I'd like and poured effort into creating something meaningful.
"It's perfect," I manage, my voice coming rough with emotions I'm not equipped to process. "Thank you."
Her expression shifts from nervous to pleased, relief and happiness flickering across her features. "You really like it?"
"I really like it." I mean the words more than she probably realizes. The wrap itself is beautiful and practical, but what it represents matters more—that she sees me clearly enough to choose colors that match, that she cares whether I stay warm during winter work.
That she spent hours making something just for me.
I set the wrap aside carefully and pull the small wrapped bundle from my pocket. Suddenly the bracelet feels inadequate—too simple compared to her elaborate knitting work, too straightforward when she put such thought into patterns and symbolism.
But it's too late to reconsider. I unwrap the soft leather and reveal what I've made.
The bracelet gleams in the firelight—silver metal worked into a delicate chain, small charms attached at intervals. Each charm carries specific meaning: a shield for protection, a leaf for growth, a crescent moon for safety in darkness, a small hammer representing strength.
And at the center, a carefully carved piece of green stone shaped like a sprouting seedling.
New beginnings.
"I—" Words stick in my throat like burrs caught on fabric. "Each charm represents something. Protection. Strength. Safety. I wanted you to have—to know that—"
Fuck, I'm terrible at this.
Ressa takes the bracelet from my palm with careful fingers, her expression unreadable as she examines each charm in turn.
The silence stretches long enough that anxiety starts crawling up my spine, whispering that I've miscalculated, chosen wrong, made something she'll accept out of politeness rather than genuine appreciation.
Then she looks up at me and her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"It's beautiful," she whispers. "Will you put it on me?"
Relief crashes through my system with enough force to leave me lightheaded. "Yeah. Of course."
She extends her left wrist, the gesture carrying trust that makes my chest constrict painfully.
I take her hand in mine—her skin warm against my cooler touch, her pulse fluttering rapidly beneath my fingers.
The bracelet clasp opens easily, my healer-trained precision making quick work of fastening it despite my internal chaos.
The metal settles against her wrist like it belongs there. Like I made it specifically to adorn this particular stretch of skin and bone.
Which I did. Obviously. But seeing it actually on her makes the abstract concept concrete in ways my brain struggles to process.
She's wearing something I made. Something that represents every protective instinct I've been trying to maintain professional distance from for weeks. Every time she looks at her wrist she'll see these charms and maybe think of me.
Maybe remember that someone cares whether she stays safe.
Ressa turns her wrist, watching the charms catch firelight. "I love it. Really. Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." My voice comes low, rough with things I don't know how to express properly. "I wanted you to have it."
Our eyes meet and hold. The noise of the feast hall fades to background static, my entire awareness narrowing to the female in front of me and the way she's looking at me like I've given her something precious instead of a simple bracelet.
I want to kiss her. The urge hits with startling intensity—wanting to close the small distance between us and taste her mouth again, feel her respond the way she did yesterday when we created rainbows and everything felt possible.
But we're surrounded by clan members. And I don't know if she wants that kind of public display. Don't know if kissing her here would be welcome or overwhelming or pushing too hard when she's barely comfortable being around crowds.
I spent forty years knowing exactly what patients needed. Reading body language and symptoms to create accurate treatment plans. Somehow with Ressa all that clinical observation fails me, leaving me uncertain and aching with wanting her in ways I don't have adequate experience navigating.
She said she wants me. But I have no idea in what capacity.
But what if I rush her? What if I push for more than she's ready to give and she retreats back into the safety of distance? What if caring about her this much means I'll inevitably hurt her by wanting too much too fast?
The uncertainty is unfamiliar. Uncomfortable. I don't know how to ache.
But watching Ressa smile while touching the bracelet I made her, I'm definitely aching. Wanting more than I know how to ask for. Hoping I haven't already fucked this up beyond repair.