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It was a chilly evening in late Spring during Círdan’s celebratory feast in Mithlond when Celebrían caught her first glimpse of Elrond in over fifteen-hundred years. If not for the white feathered cloak draping around his shoulders and the starlight glimmering in his dark hair, she would not have recognized him at all. 

The war had changed a hundred-thousand things in the world — both big and small, but Elrond, it seemed, had changed more than most. He was so strange to look upon that she had a hard time looking away as he took his seat on the curved dais between her mother and Círdan. Gone were the dove-gray eyes, gone were the gentle curves of his face, gone was the sweet smile she loved so much, the easy laughter, the bright glow beneath his skin. What was left was a blade — keen and cunning and honed for a single purpose. The grace of a dancer had morphed into the grace of a wildcat. That silver tongue had hardened to steel. The lines of his limbs seemed longer, the breadth of his hands and fingers wider, his face beaked and strange — the visage of a great bird of prey. 

He must have felt her eyes upon him because, mid-conversation with her mother, his gaze shifted to her, and she thought she saw his cheeks redden. He swiftly looked away.

It was difficult to maintain her own placid smile, to engage in the conversation around the dais, to look unbothered and sweet for the benefit of the feasting crowd below, and if it was difficult for Celebrían who had seen no battles — how much more difficult must it be for the others? Her mother was as poised as ever, but Círdan was markedly weary, with more white in his beard now than gray. The Silvan prince, Thranduil, was uncharacteristically dour, keeping to his cup, and his new crown of wildflowers seemed to fit poorly on his head. Even Glorfindel — resplendent in his golden ceremonial armor, seemed more reserved than she had ever known him to be.

Of course, Celebrían felt her own grief. Grief for all they had lost, to be sure, grief for her home in Eregion which had long-since been dashed to dust, but most of all she shared in the quiet grief that permeated everyone and everything at the dais: for the place where Círdan now sat had once been reserved for another who would never again walk the earth on this side of the Sundering Seas. 

Ereinion Gil-Galad had once been the glimmering jewel of every occasion, with his wide smile and his easy jokes, his candor and his laughter and his clever wit. He had been Celebrían’s dear friend as much as he had belonged to any of the rest of them, and as she thought of him, she found her own smile turning to ice on her face. 

Grief was a curious thing. She hadn’t thought much of her losses all day, not even in the quiet hours leading up to the feast. But here, when she ought to be in high spirits, where the wine flowed freely and the musicians sang every light-hearted song under the sun, she found that her chest ached.

She murmured some excuse and got up from the table, then stepped outside into the fresh salt air and found a quiet bench that overlooked the ocean where she could sit, compose herself, and try to stop thinking about all of the unspoken absences at the table — Ereinion, Oropher, Elrond’s kin — Elendil who had fallen and Isildur who had declined the invitation — and so, so many others. This victory belonged to them as much as it belonged to those still left standing, and it hurt that they couldn’t be here to enjoy the coming era of peace. 

She commited them to the stars and tried to put them out of her mind. Time wheeled on. The moon climbed over the ocean. A little while later, Celebrían was aware of movement in the corner of her eye. She looked and spotted a dark figure standing alone beneath a spreading, wind-twisted oak, gathering all shadow to himself. In the dark, only his hair glimmered, reflecting the night sky above.

Celebrían’s cheeks were wet. She reached for the embroidered handkerchief in the pocket of her dress, dried her face, and then got up and went to him.

Before she could say anything, he spun on her, his hand darting to his hip — where no doubt a weapon must have hung for many, many years. Celebrían held her hands up, palms out, and took one step back.

“I ought to have announced myself,” she whispered, “I am sorry.” 

Elrond’s eyes were strange and dark. She remembered how they used to glitter with starlight. He offered her a smile — or a ghost of one — and looked embarrassed. 

“No,” he said. He dipped his head in a half-bow. “I apologize. It is…” he seemed to fish around. “Good to see you,” he decided on. “My lady.” 

“I thought…” she faltered, trying to find a smile of her own. It was more difficult than she imagined — mostly because in the back of her mind some stupid, animal part of her was jumping up and down, telling her to flee, because this creature in front of her could not possibly, possibly, be Elrond. It was Something Else. Something that had stolen his body and cut it apart, stretched it beyond its natural shape, and put it back together wrong. That was perfectly foolish, of course. She knew that intellectually. That didn’t stop the hair on the back of her neck from rising. 

At last, she remembered what she had been about to say: “I thought we were long past titles, Elrond.”

They had been friends.

Were they still? 

Elrond dipped his head again and corrected himself: “Celebrían.” 

She hated how it sounded like he was humoring her. Cautiously, she took a step toward him. Elrond backed away. Celebrían stopped short.

“I’m sorry,” Elrond said again, his voice hardly audible, mostly air. “I know I am… I have changed.” 

“Yes,” Celebrían agreed, because she would not lie to him. “But so has everyone, Elrond. I did not expect you to have escaped unscathed. Especially—” she cut herself off here because her voice was beginning to falter, sticking in her throat. She’d heard the story already: that Elrond had seen Ereinion and Elendil’s last battle with Sauron, that he had watched Ereinion eviscerated into ash. Celebrían could not imagine how awful that must have been. They had loved each other — Elrond and Ereinion — a love that was more than love, a love that spoke of devotion without limits, of boundless affection, endless synchrony. Elrond would have followed him to death, she thought, if Ereinion had but allowed it.

“I would still be your friend,” she said, voice soft. “Just as I have been.” 

Something slithered behind Elrond’s eyes. Something painful and stinging of skepticism. 

“No,” he said. “I would not ask that of you.” 

“I love you,” Celebrían insisted with all the vehemence she could muster. 

Elrond looked away. His eyes slipped shut, and he whispered: “Don’t.” 

Fury was not something that Celebrían was used to feeling, but she was furious as she and her parents returned home from the feast. Her mother retired to her newly-built butterfly garden, leaving Celebrían and Celeborn alone in the parlor. Celebrían wrapped her arms around herself and pitched herself into the nearest reading chair.

She could feel the strange look her father was giving her as keenly as she could feel the warmth from the fire in the nearby hearth. Celeborn crossed the room to the tall shelves and began to rummage through the books and boxes in them.

“A game of checkers?” he suggested. “It has been a while since I have been thoroughly trounced.” 

An invitation to talk. Celebrían sighed and muttered: “Fine.” 

Celeborn sat opposite her, placed the board between them on the pine tea table, and began to set up the game.

“I saw you and Elrond step out at nearly the same time,” he said in a maddeningly observational tone, as if he was simply remarking on the weather. 

Celebrían hummed something non-commital and leaned forward to start arranging her pieces.

“So…?” Celeborn prompted.

“So he is being a fool,” Celebrían snapped, selecting her first checker and pushing it forward.

“A fool? Elrond?” the disbelief in Celeborn’s voice was palpable.

“Yes! He intends to forsake everyone and hide in that valley of his forever, I think.” 

Celeborn hummed in just the same way Celebrían had earlier, and made his counter-move. “He is grieving.” 

“So is everyone else!” 

Celeborn looked up at her. “What is this really about, Celebrían?” 

Oh, she was crying. Well that was mortifying. Celebrían reached up and scrubbed angrily at her face, tasting salt. She sniffled. Celeborn offered her his handkerchief and she waved it away. 

“He hates me,” she announced through her tears. 

Celeborn scoffed. “I don’t think Elrond has it in him to hate anyone.” 

“He doesn’t want to see me,” she continued. 

“As you said, I don’t think he wants to see anyone.” 

“And he’s a fool,” she went on, with rising irritation. 

“You’ve said that,” Celeborn replied. “It’s your turn.” 

She hadn’t even been paying attention enough to know what move Celeborn had made. Celebrían slammed her next checker down with force, huffed, and then slouched back against the chair, stuffing her arms against her chest again.

“What did he say that was so hurtful?” Celeborn asked.  

Celebrían shot him a glare. He was musing over the board, chin rested on his fist. 

“It wasn’t—” what could she say? “It wasn’t hurtful,” she grumbled, even though she had to admit that yes, yes, her father was right as usual. Which was vexing. 

“You’re angry with him.”

“Yes!” 

“The last time you were this angry with him, it was because he’d tripped all over himself and put his foot in his mouth. Several times, I recall.” 

“Ugh.” 

“It’s your turn again , mîr.” 

She was losing the game, but she hadn’t come into it with any sense of competition anyway. Celebrían made another move at random and then said: “I just want him to talk to me. We used to…he used to tell me everything. And now… he all but insisted that I stay away from him. Indefinitely. He won’t heal if he won’t accept any companionship. Isolation is going to make it worse.” 

“That’s true,” Celeborn agreed quietly. “That’s why you’re angry with him.” 

It was not a question. Celebrían scowled at him and kicked the leg of the tea table. 

“I cannot stand to watch him hurt himself,” she said at last, her vision clouding with more hot, bitter tears.

“Because you love him.” 

Celebrían sighed, and whispered: “Yes.” 

Only a year after the beginning of the Third Age of Middle Earth, grief came for Elrond again.

Isildur was dead.

The One Ring was lost. 

This time, no matter how much he wanted to, Elrond could not withdraw. Valandil was still but a child, heir to Gondor, and while his kinsman held the throne it had been deemed safest for Valandil and his mother to remain in Rivendell until the boy came of age to claim his seat. Elrond took it upon himself to raise him for the role as best he could. He owed Isildur that much.

Almost a decade passed. Elrond built his house, and at some point — while he was occupied raising Valendil — a city grew up around him and called him lord. He took Glorfindel for a master-at-arms and his cousin Erestor for a seneschal and chief architect. He found himself busier than ever. He made the Valley safe with walls, and guards, and many strong spells. He built a library and collected books and maps and scrolls from all over Middle Earth, and composed many, many records of his own. He commissioned Erestor to construct a great house of healing, and to Elrond’s own house he added rooms upon rooms for guests of all backgrounds, shapes, and sizes. Before long, Valendil grew into a man. He and his mother left Rivendell and Elrond found himself walking the maze-like corridors of his vast house alone.

Now did his heart turn to Celebrían. He wondered how she had spent her time these past years. He wondered if she still thought of him at all. Likely not, considering how Elrond had left things. 

He had only not wished to tether her to him. 

It would not have been fair to her. Celebrían could have any groom she so wished. And Elrond…

Well. 

He thought about writing a letter. He refrained. Another year passed. He waited. He watched. No rumors reached Rivendell about any impending engagement — or even a courtship — which Elrond counted strange. Surely Celebrían had found someone. Surely she would wish to wed now that they were entering a long era of peace. Surely she would find someone soon. Surely, surely, surely. 

At last he found the courage to sit at his writing desk, select some parchment, and pick up his quill. At first he could think of nothing to write, but then… once he finally began, he could not seem to stop. First, an apology, then some questions, at last he told her of Valandil, of how proud he was of him, and of Rivendell and all the people in it, and of the book of history he had just begun to compose. 

Once the letter was finished and he had sprinkled it with pounce and sealed it shut, Elrond looked out through the window of his study, scanning over the sloping hills surrounding his house. He called Erestor to him and asked how difficult it might be to construct some terraces.

“That depends,” Erestor said. “What do you intend to use them for?” 

Softly, Elrond answered: “I should like to build a garden.” 

“Elrond, what are you doing?” 

The voice was unmistakable: dry, flat, but beneath it ran an undercurrent of humor that would be unnoticeable to anyone who was not well-acquainted with it. Elrond looked up from the quilt he was fussing with to see Erestor standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest. His face was as unreadable as ever, but his eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Uh,” was the first thing that came out of Elrond’s mouth. He looked around the room — one of the many guest rooms in this wing of the house — and scanned the murals on the walls (birds, a forest, a leaping stag, mountains, stars, stars, stars), the plush lavender couch with its army of throw pillows which he had only just finished arranging, the knicknacks and books on the shelves… 

Erestor looked around the room, too. He crossed the floor to eye the collection of rocks and freshwater shells Elrond had collected, then the framed pressed leaves and flowers hanging on the wall above them. 

“You’ve been working on this room for months,” Erestor said. “I doubt a few more minutes will make any difference. You’re needed in the courtyard to welcome our guests.” 

“Is it time already?” Elrond asked, surprised, with a rising note of panic in his voice. He looked down at himself, shaking out the train of his sky-blue robe, adjusting the sash, then pushing his dark hair back behind his ears. 

“Yes. You’re likely to be late, in fact. The staff have been looking everywhere for you.” 

Oh! The hatch of light on the mosaic floor had grown brighter, Elrond supposed. The company from Lothlórien was meant to arrive sometime in the mid-morning. Elrond had rushed up here straight after breakfast in a tizzy, second-guessing just about everything, taking half a dozen things off of the bookshelves and then putting them back, swapping out pillows and blankets, selecting flowers for the vase on the bedside table, thinking and overthinking and overthinking some more until he’d almost thrown out his entire collection of shells in a fit. 

He hurried after Erestor as Erestor stepped out into the hall. While they walked, Erestor nudged Elrond’s shoulder with his own. “I am sure she’ll love the room. Try to look composed, Cousin. With that flush in your cheeks you’re likely to incite rumors that you’re ill.” 

Elrond felt ill, honestly. His stomach had been aching off and on for the past few days and it had only grown worse the closer they got to this year’s midsummer festivities. Celebrían was visiting with her parents, and would be staying for some time. He had no idea what to expect. It was not that they were strangers to each other. Quite to the contrary: as Elrond had begun to relax into this new stage of life, things between he and Celebrían had grown amicable once more. They always gravitated toward each other at events — though Elrond regretted he could not leave the valley as often as he’d like to, now that he bore the weight of Vilya on his finger. Even so, in between these rare snatches of time, they exchanged many letters. Copious letters, Erestor liked to tease: an obscene amount of letters. Elrond thought it was a perfectly reasonable amount of letters to send to a friend. Because that was what Celebrían considered them to be. Right? Friends? 

“Are you going to ask her?” Erestor prodded as they took the stairs down to the courtyard.

Elrond glanced at him. The question was as jarring as it was puzzling. “Ask her what?” 

“To marry you. Finally.” 

“Erestor!” Elrond exclaimed, aghast. “How could I?” 

Erestor gestured behind them. “So then what was that? You spend months constructing an entire room for her only to… come now, cousin. Any fool can see that you love her. Take courage and end this pointless charade.” 

Elrond’s face felt hot straight to the tips of his ears. “I cannot,” he lamented. “Not after…everything.” 

Erestor had heard the story many times — usually after Elrond had submerged himself in more wine than was strictly good for him. “I truly doubt Celebrían begrudges you for what you said to her when you reeked of Mordor’s corruption and were soaked in grief. You were not yourself.” 

“No,” Elrond agreed. “Even so…” 

Perhaps Celebrían had forgiven him, but even then…they had always only ever been friends. Dear friends, true, but friends nonetheless. Elrond had no desire to sour that with some misguided confession of romantic love. Before the war, he had originally kept himself from telling her because it seemed like folly. The likelihood of him returning from the slopes of Orodruin might as well have been nonexistent. He had expected never to return, and refused to put her through that kind of heartbreak.

But he had returned. He had come back home, yes, but he was not whole. 

And Celebrían deserved better than that. She deserved so much better than that. 

True, he had reconstructed himself over the past few years, but he had not expected her to remain unwed, let alone completely unattached. Now that she had, Elrond had no idea what to do. 

“I cannot ask her, Erestor,” Elrond said as they came at last to the stairwell leading to the courtyard. “It would be unfair.” 

Erestor snorted, shook his head, and did not reply. 

Celebrían was now two weeks into her visit to Rivendell. The midsummer festivities had come and gone. She and Elrond had spent as much time together as his schedule allowed, and Celebrían had had enough. 

Elrond, it seemed, would never ask her to marry him. 

Even though he had proudly shown off the terraced gardens he’d built, with the verdant, flourishing herb beds, the ingenious acqueduct that ran the whole length of the terraces — tumbling down each step, carrying smowmelt and rainwater to keep the whole of the garden watered and fertile. It was beautiful, lush with summer flowers and fruit, and still more plants seemed to spring up in the wake of Elrond’s feet as he laughed and pointed out this feature or that. When they had reached a mostly empty terrace and Celebrían, curious as to why this one was so neglected, had asked about it, Elrond had remarked how much he’d like to plant some rose bushes. Pink and yellow ones, he said. 

Those were her favorite.

Still, he did not ask. She couldn’t stand it. Elrond was going to drive her mad. 

She had expected he would ask now that he had truly settled into his home here. He appeared so happy, so grounded — a far cry from the shivering shell she’d met after the war — even if he did always trip over his sentences whenever he was around her. He had even brushed his hand against hers on their walk this morning while he told her of the latest book of medicinal lore he was composing. Celebrían had slipped her hand into his, and he’d made no protest. He had only smiled. 

And still, still he did not ask!

And truly, truly, Celebrían had had enough. If Elrond would not ask, then she must simply do it herself. If things continued as they had been, they’d never get anywhere. 

So, she invited him to tea out on the balcony overlooking the terraces — close to that specific place Elrond had spoken of planting roses. It was a warm, breezy day, perfect for spending some time outside, and this particular spot was well-chosen. It was close to the great falls of the Bruinen; the wind carried a moist chill off the water that served to ease the summer heat, and the sweet scent of green growing things and summer flowers drenched the air. Celebrían asked the kitchen staff for Elrond’s favorites — or, the ones in season, anyway — and so the pine tea table was laid with shortbread dotted with walnuts, cucumber sandwiches, and a plate of raspberry rolls with clotted cream and jam to pair with them. While she waited for Elrond to show up, Celebrían arranged the table, turning the plates this way and that, fussed with her hair, promptly realized she was fidgeting, and insisted to herself that she was not nervous. And if she was, there was no reason to be. She knew Elrond’s feelings as well as she knew her own. It was obvious. He only (for some curious reason she couldn’t comprehend) did not have the courage to voice them. 

But no, no. She was not nervous. 

She told herself that even as her sharp ears picked up Elrond’s footsteps in the hall. Even as she turned to see him standing there framed in the elegant arch of the doorway, clad in one of his deep cerulean gowns, wearing an affable, bright smile on his face. He glimmered at the edges — radiant in the sunlight, lovely and somehow arcane. 

“Celebrían!” he said, greeting her as if they’d been apart for an age, and not only since breakfast.

Celebrían had to laugh. Valar above, he was so pretty. She hoped the flush in her cheeks could be put down to the summer heat — or was otherwise, at the very least, attractive. She extended her hand to him. “Come join me.” 

Elrond crossed the floor, took her hand, and together they sat at the table in a hatch of canary-colored light. 

“I have brought you something,” Elrond told her as he sat. He reached into the inner pocket of his gown and produced a glossy black stone, shot through with carmine veins. 

Celebrían took it. It was still sun-warm, glowing heat in the palm of her hands. By now, she was well-accustomed to Elrond’s strange gifts. The first time he’d started leaving stones for her had been unbearably awkward, for she had not understood. She was no carver of gems or rock, and she’d told him as much. He’d let out an anxious huff and said I know, I know, and with some further coaxing (for Celebrían had been so terribly confused and Elrond so terribly embarrassed that she had to bully him into an answer), he had mumbled that he only thought it was beautiful little stone, and that it had made him think of her. 

Elves did not give gifts in such a manner. But Elrond was not an elf.

“Thank you,” Celebrían said, running the pad of her thumb over the surface. “What kind of stone is it? I haven’t seen one like it before.” 

“Obsidian,” Elrond told her. “The mountain made it,” he gestured to the far crests in the distance. “There is a whole flow,” he paused to clarify: “A…deposit of it nearby.”

Celebrían hummed. As soon as she had learned that the region was volcanic, she had, alarmed, asked Elrond why he had built a city here. He’d explained that volcanic regions held many treasures — chiefly, the most fertile soil in the world — and that had come as a great shock. She had bit her tongue on but Mordor is volcanic, and that is an evil place. 

Perhaps it had less to do with the mountain, and more to do with who ruled the realm. Sauron corrupted everything he touched, but wherever Elrond placed his hands things seemed to grow larger, truer, more vibrant, overflowing with abundance and life. Her mother’s realm was lush, of course, and steeped in strong magic, but Elrond’s valley always felt different somehow. Perhaps it was his own magic. Perhaps it was as he said — and the difference was in the mountains. Perhaps it was a bit of both. 

Either way, Elrond had reassured her that the volcanic activity posed no meaningful threat to life in his valley. Erestor had surveyed the land long ago and surmised that the mountains slept, and even then…something sly and secretive had slipped over Elrond’s features as he had declared: “It will always be safe. I have made it so.” 

It would be just like Elrond to harness something like a volcano for his own purposes. 

Sometimes it amazed her that he had ever taken notice of her in the first place. She was no great match for him. Celebrían was not a lover of politics. She had no stomach for battle. Neither did she have any great might or power to call her own. She loved to weave, and paint, and tend gardens. 

That, Elrond had insisted so long ago, was precisely why he liked her so much.

Liked. 

Liked.

She might have been insulted if she had not seen the cherry-red blush that had spread high on his cheeks as soon as he’d said it.

He liked her. And now he had given her a guest room that was so beyond a mere guest room that it was frankly ridiculous to name it such. He was reserving a terrace for her favorite flowers. And now this, here: he was giving her gifts — which in the customs of her mother’s people in which Elrond had been raised, Celebrían knew, was as good as courtship. Even if those gifts were not strictly… appropriate, or usual. They were gifts nonetheless. A token of affection. 

And still, still, he would not ask!

Celebrían set the stone aside and filled her plate. Elrond took it upon himself to pour their first cups of tea. The conversation turned to idle chatter about the weather, about Elrond’s schedule, about how Celebrían was enjoying her stay — all while Celebrían tried to think of how to bring the topic up. 

Nothing sounded quite right in her head. Their plates emptied and filled again. Elrond poured them both a second cup of tea. The conversation went on. The second cups were drained. Time was winding down and soon Elrond would have to return to his responsibilities, and Celebrían was not certain when next he might have time to talk.

Perhaps she had been unfair to him after all, for when faced with the prospect of simply outright asking, her grasp on basic language was suddenly eluding her.

“Are you quite well?” Elrond asked. “Am I boring you? Goodness, I’ve been prattling on. I do apologize.” 

“No!” Celebrían exclaimed at once. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and realized that, yes, her contribution to the conversation had been getting vaguer, quieter, less and less engaged. She was just so busy trying to think of how to bring this vexing problem up to him. She sighed and blew at a stray curl that had fallen to drape over her nose. 

She was not nervous. She was not. 

Elrond did not look as if he believed her, but blessedly he did not press. Instead, he said: “Well, let’s finish off the tea — and then I am afraid I must go.”

She watched him reach for the pot. Watched him pour the cup, and really, truly, she could not stand it. 

Celebrían leaned in and kissed his cheek.

Elrond froze. The cup overfilled. He swore, apologized for swearing, and then set the pot down and just stared at her.

Celebrían bit her lip. Then she had to cover her mouth to disguise her smile, but that could not hide the laugh that bubbled out of her. “Oh, Elrond. You’re turning so red!” 

He was. And that was what was so funny. He looked like he was going to suffocate in that robe of his.

“I’m sorry,” Celebrían said at last, though her voice still warbled with laughter. “Have I misjudged things? Have we not been courting all these long years?” 

“I—” Elrond swallowed. He looked down at the tea and sopped up the mess with the closest linen napkin. “Well. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Were we not friends?” 

There: a pinprick of anxiety. Celebrían stomped on it. She had come too far to give in to cowardice now. If she demurred there would be no recovery. So, she pressed on. 

“Yes,” she said carefully, “But are we not both? I should still like to be your friend, Elrond. But perhaps…” she reached over and placed her hand in his, relieved to find him open to the gesture. “I should like to be your wife, too?” 

His hand jumped in hers. She caressed his knuckles with the pad of her thumb, a reflection of the touch she’d given the warm stone he’d so lovingly placed in her outstretched palm. 

“Celebrían,” he said at last, and his voice was hoarse and unsteady. “I would not shackle you to me.”

“Don’t say that.” She shifted a little closer, reaching up to hold his face. “I said I loved you all those years ago and that still holds true. Can we not put aside this foolishness and finally wed? I don’t think you know the first thing about raising roses. They’re fickle plants. You’ll need my help.” 

That was said with lilting humor, and it had its intended effect: Elrond shook his head and exhaled a laugh through his nose. “I think I am quite capable of tending a few rosebushes.”

“Even so,” she said, “I would like to tend them with you.” 

His eyes fluttered shut. He leaned into her palm, then turned to kiss it. “I have loved you,” he said at last. “It never waned.”

“I know that,” Celebrían answered. “I have loved you just the same.” 

“Then I would count myself very fortunate, Lady Celebrían, if you would consent to be my wife.” 

Celebrían beamed at him. Finally. Valar above, finally! 

“My Lord Elrond,” she said, leaning in at last to kiss his mouth. “I thought you would never ask.”