She returned her gaze to the paper. She began to read, and her voice was deep and smoky, as if she were pulling the words from her past. From a night when she had been sitting on the floor of her room.
“I think we all wear armor. I think those who don’t are fools, risking the pain of being wounded by the sharp edges of the world, over and over again. But if I’ve learned anything from those fools, it is that to be vulnerable is a strength most of us fear. It takes courage to let down your armor, to welcome people to see you as you are. Sometimes I feel the same as you: I can’t risk having people behold me as I truly am. But there’s also a small voice in the back of my mind, a voice that tells me, ‘You will miss so much by being so guarded.’”
She paused, emotion rising in her throat. She didn’t dare look at Roman. She didn’t know if his eyes were open or still shut as she continued, reaching the end.
“All right, now I’ve let the words spill out. I’ve given you a piece of armor, I suppose. But I don’t think you’ll mind,” she finished, folding the letter back up. “There. Does that satisfy you, Kitt?”
He took the letter back. “Yes. Although there is another one I’d like you to read. Where did I put it…?”
“Another one? At this rate, you’ll have to read a second letter to me, then.”
“I accept those terms. This one is quite short, and it might be my favorite.” He found it, holding the paper between them.
She was curious. She accepted it and was just about to glance over this letter when a firm knock rattled the door, startling them both. Her stomach dropped when she imagined all the reasons why someone might be interrupting them. Dacre has been spotted. It’s time to retreat. It’s the beginning of the end.
She met Roman’s gaze. She saw the same dread in his countenance. That their time had been cut short. They had managed to speak their vows but never had the chance to fulfill them.
“Roman? Iris?” Marisol’s voice called through the wood. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but Keegan has issued a blackout for the town. No electricity and no candlelight for the rest of the night, I’m afraid.”
Roman was frozen for a second. And then he said, “Yes, of course! Not a problem, Marisol.”
Iris scrambled to her feet, blowing out the countless candles Attie had lit for them. The flames died, one by one, until only one candle remained burning, held in Roman’s hand.
Iris returned to their bed. She sat facing him this time, the letter still in her fingers.
“Read it to me quickly, Iris,” he said.
A shiver coursed through her. She felt like sugar melting in tea. She dropped her gaze to the letter and softly read, “I’ll return most likely when the war is over. I want to see you. I want to hear your voice.”
She looked at Roman again. Their gazes held while he blew out the candle. The darkness rushed in, surrounding them. And yet Iris had never seen so many things before.
She whispered, “I want to touch you.”
“Now that wasn’t in the letter,” he said wryly. “I would have framed it on the wall had it been.”
“Alas,” she countered. “I wanted to write it to you then. I didn’t, though, because I was afraid.”
He was quiet for a beat. “What were you afraid of?”
“My feelings for you. The things I wanted.”
“And now?”
She reached out and found his ankle. Slowly, her fingers drifted up to his knee. She could feel the bandages beneath his jumpsuit; she could see his wounds in her mind, the way they would scar. She said, “I think you’ve made me brave, Kitt.”
His breath escaped him, a tenuous unspooling, as if he had been holding it in years for her. “My Iris,” he said, “there is no question that you are the brave one, all on your own. You were writing to me for weeks before I roused the courage to write you back. You walked into the Gazette and took me and my ego on without a blink. You were the one who came to the front lines, unafraid to look into the ugly face of war long before I did. I don’t know who I would be without you, but you have made me in all ways better than I ever was or could have ever hoped to be.”
“I think you and I are simply better together, Kitt,” she said, and her hand traveled to his thigh.
“You took the words right from my mouth,” he replied with a slight gasp. She felt him shift; the blankets pulled at her knees. She thought he was retreating from her until he said, “Come closer, Iris.”
She moved forward, reaching for him. His hands found her at last, touching her face, the slope of her shoulders. He drew her to him, and after momentarily getting her foot caught in one of the blankets, she straddled his lap.
Kissing him in the dark was entirely different from kissing him in the light. When the sun had gilded them hours ago, they had been eager and clumsy and hungry. But now, in the shadows of night, they were languid and thorough and curious.
She was bold in the darkness. She drew her lips across his jaw; she pressed her mouth to his throat, to the wild beat of his pulse. She drank the scent of his skin; she slid her tongue along his, tasting his sighs. She noticed how he touched her in return—reverently, mindfully. His hands would come to rest on the front of her ribs, his fingers splayed as if yearning for more, and yet they didn’t rise any higher or slide any lower.
Iris wanted his touch. She didn’t know why he was hesitating until she felt his fingers find the top button of her jumpsuit, and he whispered, “May I?”
“Yes, Kitt,” she said, shivering as he began to unbutton them, one by one, in the dark. She felt the cool air wash over her as he slid her jumpsuit down, off her shoulders. The fabric gathered at her waist, and she waited. She waited for him to touch her, and he took his time, tracing the dip of her collarbone, the curve of her bare back, the straps of her bra. His hands came to rest on her ribs again. She was trembling with the anticipation.
“Is this all right, Iris?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and she closed her eyes as his hands began to learn the shape of her.
No one had ever worshipped her like this. She felt his breath on her skin, his lips hovering above her heart. He kissed her once, twice, softly and then roughly, and she reached up, to remove the flowers, the pearls, and the braids from her hair. It fell free in long waves down her back, still damp and fragrant, and Roman’s fingers instantly wove within it.
“You’re beautiful, Iris,” he said.
She began to unfasten his jumpsuit, desperate to feel his skin against hers. One of the buttons tore loose, tumbling to the blankets at their knees.
Roman chuckled. “Careful. This is the only jumpsuit I have.”
“I’ll repair it tomorrow,” Iris promised, even though she didn’t know what would come at sunrise. She cast those worries aside, though, as she undressed Roman.
They were both anxious to be free of the garments that had held them through countless troubles. Once liberated, they tossed their raiment across the room with hushed laughter. And the world melted into something new and molten.