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Her cheeks turn pink.

“I didn’t mean…”

“You love me?”

She looks away.

“Maybe.”

“Wren.”

“Don’t use that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The one that makes me want to tell you everything.”

I cup her cheek.

“Then tell me.”

She exhales shakily.

“I think I’m falling in love with you.”

I have heard mortals speak those words thousands of times.

Some whispered them in devotion.

Others used them as weapons.

But never have they been spoken to me.

Never have they made the world feel suddenly, impossibly different.

I brush my thumb across her cheek.

“I love you, Wren.”

She goes completely still.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

I frown.

“Why would I say it otherwise?”

“Because maybe you don’t know what love is.”

I study her.

She looks suddenly uncertain.

“Maybe I’m just kind to you. Maybe you’re confusing gratitude with love. You’ve never been kissed before me, Vidar. You’ve never had someone hold you or…”