Danica looked at him as if he'd cracked open the sky just to pluck down a star for her keeping. Her fingertips ghosted across the small gift, reverent, like even the air might be too rough against it. Her voice, thick with gratitude, barely made it past her lips.
"Thank you," she breathed, a tremor of wonder stitched through the words. "I love it. Truly."
Alfred's smile unfurled slow and imperfect, a little lopsided, a little boyish, devastating in a way that made Danica's heart trip over itself. His gaze met hers—steady, unguarded—and in it, he handed her a silent vow: Whatever you want. Whatever you need. It's yours.
"There's more," he said, his voice dipping into that teasing timbre that wrapped around her ribs and squeezed. "But you'll have to be patient, darling. Wait until you're stronger."
Danica's face fell, crumpling with a delicate kind of tragedy that made Alfred want to laugh and kiss her in the same breath. She pouted, stubborn and sweet, her eyes wide and wounded.
