That night, Elowen didn't sleep.
She lay in bed with her hands folded over her chest, the last rose petal resting beneath them, tucked into a folded handkerchief like something holy. Outside, the stars hung low, heavy with light, and the moon leaned in through her window like it, too, was curious.
Her heart was too full for rest.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Amara—lit by rose-colored twilight, her fingers around Elowen's, her voice steady but vulnerable: Then we'll believe together.
It hadn't been a vow.
But it had felt like one.
She rose before dawn.
The world was still and silver. Mist curled at the edges of the trees, and dew clung to every leaf like a secret. Elowen didn't dress fancy—just a warm cloak and soft boots, hair pulled into a loose braid. She didn't need to look perfect.
She only needed to be herself.
As she stepped past the rose arch, something stirred in the air. Not just magic.
Hope.
Amara was already waiting.
She stood beneath the open sky, her silver hair glowing faintly in the early light. When she saw Elowen, her lips parted—not in surprise, not in fear.
Just quiet relief.
"You came," she said.
"I always will," Elowen whispered.
They didn't speak much after that.
Instead, they walked together through the quiet garden, fingers brushing sometimes, never holding, never quite daring—but never far.
It wasn't a silence born of fear. It was a silence full of meaning. Like the hush between notes of a song. Like a heartbeat held just before something beautiful.
And then they stopped—beneath the old rose tree at the center of it all.
Amara turned to her, eyes soft. "Do you ever feel like the world is waiting on something small, but everything depends on it?"
Elowen nodded. "Like the space before a breath."
"Or before a kiss."
Elowen's heart caught.
She didn't answer. She just looked at Amara, really looked—at the shadows beneath her lashes, the curve of her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly, like a question waiting to be asked.
Amara took one step closer.
Her hand found Elowen's.
And then she leaned in—slowly, gently—until their foreheads touched. Not a kiss. Not quite. Just that breathless, shivering space before.
"I want to," Amara whispered.
Elowen closed her eyes. "So do I."
"But not yet," Amara said, voice trembling.
Elowen nodded, even as her heart ached.
Because she understood.
Some kisses aren't stolen.
Some are promised.
And some are held safe in the quiet, until the moment the world says now.