This was him, as it crested and burst over him, and he knew it.
Because he was himself, the fire leapt upward and the leftover stew bubbled abruptly, and a flower burst out of the wooden table in improbable ecstasy.
Gareth looked that way. Lifted both eyebrows. “And I’m taking that as a compliment, thank you.” The Northern rumble added smugness, but only a hint.
“Ah,” Lorre managed, panting. “Tell me what sort of flower you’d like, next time, and I’ll see what I can do…”
“I’ve always been partial to sunflowers. Big, bright, full of color. But anything colorful’s fun. Wildflowers, up in the mountain pastures. All pink and purple and blue.” Gareth wriggled up and closer and apparently wanted to kiss Lorre’s collarbone, and then his throat. “Does that happen every time?”
He didn’t sound
