"Today I will live in acceptance rather than expectation."
- unknown

I THINK I REGRETTED it thoroughly—avoiding him, that is. I say I think, for my head said one thing and my heart the other, and the contrasting thoughts clashed and battled within me to the extent that I could no longer do my work. My mind plagued me with pictures of empty fields: of the isolation I had acquainted before my knowing of Jake whilst my heart was devilish, persistent on being triumphant, and therefore sent fluttering butterflies at that thought of Jake's name: his heat, his warmth, his smile and gentle manner. All it did was fill me with perplexity: I could no longer go on visiting Jake's chambers at the early hours of the morning due to the fear of meeting those eyes once more, and falling to the floor in despair.

Betrayal.

Confusion.

Hurt.

I remember it so vividly: his pain, his anguish, his longing to be sympathised with—his longing for acceptance from me, one in which I could once give but now could not. I remember the contorting of his face—the hurt seeping into his angelic features, the devil's mark rippling with an unpredicted spark of fury. Mollie's words came to mind: George's discomfort and winters winds in the summer—misplaced, but somehow fitting.

And Mollie—I had not seen her since that day, and it had been weeks. I had no words for her: no words of comfort or agreement for her actions displayed and her speaking for me—although some part of me was grateful. Besides, Mollie was off with the Major, her head filled with some false ideology of what life was meant to be. She seemed happy with him—seemed being the key word—and often, I could hear her shrill voice up the corridors, squealing and gossiping and gently laughing. If she truly wanted that life, then so be it. I hoped, for her, eternal happiness.

And whilst Mollie's squeals filled the hallways, I stood within the very room I had weeks ago—washed clothes stacked, basket tossed and winters winds heavy, sending shivers about me. Apart of me was grateful for it: the cold; such a thing to avert Jake's warmth from me, to build a wall that was indestructible and to never let it be torn down—to build a staggering castle, from ivory and steel and the strongest stone in mans reach and block all those who once gained access to my heart. It was better that way.

Or, my mind had convinced me it was.

I looked down to see my hands sitting glumly upon the washed clothes, their deep colouring juxtaposing from the beige of, what I assumed to be, Mollie's dress. Their coating had become withered and dull, the lines of age and worry infecting the youth that my body held—the colour of life and health draining, letting my hands shrill and contort into something that was despicable and wrong. It reminded me of Mother—whose youth had been drained from her like a flimsy cloth, discarded in filth and left to rot. It reminded me of her brutish manner, her horrid ways and stained happiness. It was repulsive.

I tucked my hands into my pockets forcefully.

I wished to stare at them no longer.

~

Evening dawned upon the room, the summer sun dissipating as though it was never there—and perhaps it had never truly been. Perhaps it was Jake's warmth always, and now that I had been submerged into the cold I could no longer feel it; maybe I would never be able to feel such a thing again.

A frown graced my face.

"Why me," I muttered, shaking my head profusely. Thick coils of ebony fell from my poorly kept bun, the bonnet of a dingy white falling onto the floor. Sighing heavily, I crouched to pick it back up. Such a thing was always secure on my head—why it had fallen off, I had no idea—

—and then I felt it, and I realised why it had fallen off.

My theory, my thoughts, had proved right. I was so cold that I did not feel his warmth behind me all this time: watching, crying, waiting.

I froze.

"Amandine," he breathed—Jake breathed—and I felt something in my chest: a fluttering, a skip of a beat, a nauseous wash fall over my being. "Amandine, please, let me explain myself."

Shakily, I realised a breath I had not known I held. My eyes could not meet his own—not yet. They held such power, such emotions, that I would fall easily into his hands. I would not be played like a doll. "Be quick about it." I snatched the bonnet from the edge of his grasp, fingers grazing, the brutish marks of war biting against the withered texture of my fingers. He flinched at the touch, and it were as if I could see his face contort with utter perplexity at the feel of my hands. His eyes went down, squinting, examining—

—I clutched the bonnet and shoved it into my skirts. "You have until I reach my chambers."

"R-Right," he stood, releasing a breath, but by the time he'd begun I had already surged down the hall. The quicker I walked, the sooner it was over.

I could not face him today.

Although that is what I had said weeks before, where betrayal rested within his features, and perplexity clouded his mind. And it was not because I hated him—for I could never hold such an emotion toward him, Jake Warrens—but I could not dare to look at his face and not explode with some hidden anger, or crumble with due to an eruption of heartache. I could not—would not—allow myself to be seen so vulnerable by anyone. Especially not him.

But I could not out walk him.

He was taller and broader, and fuelled by a determination that was as persistent as it was intriguing.

"Amandine, if you'd walk slower perhaps you'd hear the full story." Irritation laced his words as he spoke through gritted teeth, his eyes at the back of my head. He was behind me. He'd caught up fast.

"I'm surprised you haven't even begun to explain yourself if you knew your time was limited."

"Such a silver tongue you have."

"Such an annoying innocence you have."

"Amandine, please," he sighed, grabbing my arm. The grip was firm, as were the clipped words that left his mouth and the stance he took. "Just let me explain everything—"

"What is there to explain?" I asked, eyebrows furrowed. "What is there to explain that foolish act you displayed, and yet dragged my name into? What—was there meant to be some kind of justification? Some reasoning behind your impetuousness? Your brutish ways?!" Question after question, the words flew from my mouth like venom—clipped and careless, brewed by some concoction of animosity and thriving confusion. They spewed upon his face, burning the thriving joy that slept peacefully in his eyes, tainting his warmth; a coldness came about him, about his eyes and lips and furrowed brows. Something was going to happen—I knew it.

I was just too stubborn to stop.

"Please enlighten me, Jake Warrens!" Spitting his name as though it was that of disgrace, I stared into his eyes—analysing the emotions, taking in the various changes of animosity and enmity to some peculiar calmness. "Tell me why—why I treated you so kindly, with nothing but a good heart and a want to give you a chance, and you step all over it! You broke me, and even after that, I still wanted to believe that you had good in you! I still did believe—I always believed. Why do you think I changed to your chambers, requested it? Why do you think I taught you to write—spent my hours thinking of ways for you to feel normal and accepted and then you just ... just ... just break it all down again!"

And then there were tears.

Damp and cold, unwanted, and yet somewhat needed. Dripping, they fell. Dripping, they stained the beige of my dress. Dripping, they soaked the skin of my arms. Dripping. Dripping. Dripping.

I was too tired to wipe them away.

"Don't think I'm not wiping them to get some sympathy from you, Jake Warrens." And although I wanted to uphold some strong manner, my voice was broken—raspy and dry, clawing at my throat in agony—but I would not allow him to think of it as pity. As pathetic.

I knew he would not, anyway.

"You always say my name so formally, Amandine." Soft was his voice, although it seemed in conflict with his eyes, which were that of an ocean in the midst of a storm: brutish, bitter and bewildering. He wiped away a stray tear, his calloused skin rough, causing me to flinch. "You never seem to say it with the hate that you speak to me with." He looked at me in the eyes, staring with a keen intensity. I didn't look away, however. I doubted that he'd expect me to. "Do you hate me?"

I scoffed, tugging his hands from my face. This conversation was pointless. "Why does it matter?"

"Because it makes all the difference. It will let me know if my explanation will hold any use in convincing you to let me in again." There was a pause, and then: "There is a reason for my every action, as there is for yours. Remember that."

Everything become heightened: the wind, the eerie cold of summer, in which the sun had fled in fright and let autumns laugh of some raspy chill blow against our bodies. Every whisper of a word could be heard, every foot against the floor, every rustle of the leaves upon the lanky tree.

It was silent.

And then, "No, I don't hate you. I never will."

I think that gave him some reassurance, as he began to speak—and I began to listen.

Various emotions were transmitted within his words, as though they were some hidden code to break. Fear, acceptance, happiness, horror. An endless cycle of hurt, dread at the thought of everything being temporary. A test, a challenge, a want to make me hate him—and then he realised that it was for nothing. And once that realisation settled in, there was no place for making amends until now. Until we had stood before one another—one in tears and the other internally distressed. One, stubborn and fuming—the other calm but breaking. He spoke to me of himself—of the normalcy of his actions, as indecorous as they are, and how I had seemed to be something temporary, and then made permanent. Of how he'd been overcome by the sense of obeying that he'd forgotten me, and then mourned over the potential loss of the only thing that had ever been good in his life.

And all whilst his mouth moved, I watched him intently. Shivers that invaded my spine weren't priority to be rid of, neither was the wrinkled skin that grazed my hands (which I had not known was fading away, slowly) or the disapproving hour that the clocks chimed. All my attention was on him: on his eyes, the raw emotion that invaded them, and his scar, which—in the candlelight—flinched and flickered as thought it were a person, reacting to Jake Warrens' ghastly tale. And his mouth—the words that tumbled from them, not in acid like mine but some soothing cream, made for healing, not wounding. He emitted nothing but the truth. Nothing but calm and care, healing and compassion.

He had a heart.

At least I had been right in my judgment on that a few weeks prior.

"And that's the end." He finalised, looking into my eyes once more. Fear struck within them, the hazel of his eye—coupled with the milky white of his scarred one—awaited my action, analysing my every move, my every breath, my every flinch.

He, however, did not comprehend what was to come next.

"I'm sorry." I said, and though—in my stubborn manner—I did not enjoy the words, and would never say it to anyone else, Jake Warrens deserved to hear them. Only him. "I guess I judged you, like everyone else. I'm sorry I didn't give you more of a chance."

And he laughed, although it was not malicious. It was warm—like the heat he emitted, and like the summer sun. It was nice to feel it again. "My dear Amandine, oh, my heart." A smile graced his face, and my heart fluttered. "You did no such thing. You'll never realise it, but you're the reason I'm here. You gave me a chance when none other was willing. I don't need the world to accept me," he paused, stepping toward me with caution—awaiting a flinch from me, or an indication to step put. None came. "I only need you to."

He stood before me, his height staggering—my head tilted back. Moonlight danced upon one side of his face, the other bathed in candlelight. It were as if they were battling one another, yet dancing at the same time. They complimented each other so well.

I liked to think that we did, too—in some peculiar, unclear way.

"Can you do that, Amandine?"

I smiled.

For Jake Warrens, I may have been able to do anything.

Even what I did then.

Standing on the tips of my toes, I looked at Jake in the eyes. Hands tilted his head down, so that our noses touched, and our breaths collided, I gave him my answer.

I kissed him.

—

hey guys! sorry for the long wait :(
this is probably the longest chapter
i've written yet for this book!
prepare yourself for a feels trip
ahead!