NIMBLE FINGERS BURIED in silken brown locks, heartbeats converging in the dark theatre behind the rippling red curtains—it was then that Maarit learned what it felt like to feel her heart jump to her throat, and not from wrath or terror. They had remained this way, wrapped up in one another's arms, for a moment that was simultaneously too long and not long enough. She told herself that Theodoracius was merely touch-starved; that was why he was holding her like he was drowning in her.

Yet she couldn't deny the collision of cosmos occurring in her head. She was holding her breath, and it was only when the king's arms slackened and he rose to his feet in front of her that she exhaled stars. She knew that they did not all leave her—no, there were certainly still some cartwheeling in her eyes.

       "It is very late. Are you tired?" he breathed almost inaudibly. The only reason she heard him was because they were still so close—close enough that she could see the celestial glister in his eyes, too.

       "No," she muttered back, clenching her fists at her sides awkwardly. "Are you?"

       "No."

       Maarit knew they both were, but it was the sort of tiredness that couldn't be settled with rest. They were both exhausted down to their souls. Of course they were—the country was crumbling around them. Every day, while Theodoracius became more human to her, he became more of a demon to everyone else. The people were likely on the brink of war. Yet the girl found a way to ignore that. She could think about plagues, wars, death and the people that longed to murder her king when she wasn't so drunk on stars.

"Would you—perhaps—like something to eat?" he spluttered, looking down at his shoes. "I know it is late, but there's always something in the kitchen."

"I—um," Maarit said, unsure of how to respond to this offer. "Uh... sure. Yes." It was only when he turned around that she realized she was still wearing his crown. "Oh!" she exclaimed so abruptly that he jumped and whirled around. Confusion crossed his features as she took the crown off and placed it back on his head. "I almost forgot."

       "Right," he said, his breaths inexplicably jagged. He hesitated before offering her his arm, which she took.

       The tension between them grew thicker with each passing minute as they walked in silence. She resented the fact that she could still feel her heartbeat everywhere: pounding behind her eyes, pulsing at her temples, thumping hollowly at the base of her throat. She could barely breath when she felt his eyes on her. Though his gaze never lingered for very long, she could see from the corner of his eyes that he was sneaking glances at her in a discreet fashion—but not discreet enough to keep her lungs from collapsing all over again every time he did.

When they finally reached the kitchen, Theodoracius made her wait outside as he darted in and came out with a platter of tiny fruit tarts. He was quiet, but smiled softly as she immediately grabbed three off of the platter and bit into one of them, letting out a pleasant sigh at the taste of the sweet custard and slightly sour strawberries that commingled on her tongue.

He didn't take one.

And she pretended she was hungry enough to ignore the nervous lurch of her stomach.

Everything worsened—the tangible tension in the air, the awkwardness that lingered thickly—when they returned to the dining hall and she realized that they were no longer alone. The guardsmen that had the night shift were there. Maarit wished they weren't.

"Have one," she demanded to him as he set the platter down onto the table in front of them. She gestured to the tarts, licking the custard from her lips. She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"They're for you," he replied, frowning.

She let out a little chuckle. "Don't be stupid, I'm not going to eat all of them! There have got to be over fifty! Come on, have one. They're delicious."

       Suddenly, she plucked a tart from the tray with one hand, grabbed his face with the other and shoved it between his lips. His eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't protest. However, the guards surrounding them became alert and prepared to defend.

       "Your guards think I'm attempting to make you choke on these," she said, watching in amusement as Theodoracius finished off the rest of the one that had been brutally shoved in his mouth. She added brusquely, speaking loud enough for the guards to hear, "Trust me, if I wanted to, I would think of more creative ways to do it."

       He rolled his eyes and made a motion with his hand, dismissing the guards. And they were alone again, and Maarit did not have a clue what to do. She didn't know whether to sit down or remain standing, so she simply leaned against the edge of the table.

       As per usual, the king was standing too close and too far all at once. He had already taken the crown off again; it sat on the dining table, the rubies and gold glimmering in the dull light. Maarit watched as Theodoracius swallowed nervously and began absently fiddling with the collar of his shirt. She caught a glimpse of the scar again, and began getting lost in speculation at how exactly it had happened. How that particular day had unfolded. How a father could ever slash his son's chest with a knife—

       "Is something wrong?" Theodoracius asked, drawing her out of her thoughts and anchoring her back to the present. He tilted his head thoughtfully at her.

       "No. Yes. I don't know. I was just wondering something." When she paused, he raised his eyebrows and urged her to continue. With an ephemeral stroke of courage, she managed to blurt out, "May I see—may I see your scar?"

       Taken aback, his lips parted in shock for a split second before they began to form a playful grin instead. "Darling, if you wanted to see me naked you should've just asked."

       She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment and immediately denied what he had been alluding to. "No, no, it's not that, it's just—"

       "I know. It's fine," he added, stepping towards her. "Clearly you're only curious how bad it is. I've told you about it, but you'd like to see for yourself. I don't mind showing you."

       He began to unbutton his shirt—not all the way, but just enough to expose the scar. His eyes were downcast, but he pulled back the fabric to show her the remnants of the old wound.

       It was worse than Maarit had imagined. Not one, but three slits ran lengthwise along his chest, a stark and prominent white against his skin. The longest one was the one she had always seen peeking through his shirt. It was the only one that reached up to his collarbone. These scars were reminders that she would never, ever know the extent of the pain Theodoracius had been forced to endure.

"He had better be rotting in Hell for ever touching you," Maarit snarled under her breath. It was a quiet yet feral whisper, not meant to be heard by the king.

       As soon as the words left her lips, she found she recognized them. He had said something very similar to her when the guard had violated her.

Theodoracius's head, which had previously been lowered shyly under her gaze, snapped upward. "What?" he demanded, his chest suddenly rising and falling rapidly. He was not asking as though he hadn't made out what she had said, but rather as though he couldn't believe what he'd heard. His eyes grew so wide that it was as though he was a blind man seeing for the first time; and in the depths of his orbs, like buried light, there they were: the stars.

"Oh, I—it's nothing," Maarit said hurriedly, attempting to wave off what he hadn't been meant to hear. "I just said—"

She was cut off when he took the final step towards her, backing her into the edge of the table. In the rapidity of one shaky inhale, Theodoracius reached out to caress her cheek with feather-light fingertips, leaned down and captured her lips with his.

Time slowed down and hearts sped up. Though Maarit longed to count the minuscule freckles on his nose, her eyes involuntarily fluttered shut. She gripped the edge of the table so hard that her knuckles turned white. It was without qualms, without worries, as though he hadn't thought a single thing through; just the press of two pairs of lips that had already confessed everything to one another.

       She didn't know how to respond except to allow her mouth to soften against his.

       As soon as she did, he pulled away.

       Immediately, he stepped away from her. She tried to push down the disappointment that made her heart clench. Her eyes tried to catch his, but he wouldn't look at her.

       "I'm sorry," he said quickly, clenching his jaw and averting his eyes. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have just—that was inappropriate—I'm sorry, I'm so sor—"

Stammering, he began to turn his back to her. Maarit felt the moment slipping between her fingers, falling away.

"No," she said forcefully, reaching forward to grab him by the shoulder and twist him back around to face her. She shook her head profusely and repeated, softer this time (though with the same adamant tone), "No." And then she seized him around the neck and pulled him close—their noses bumped and she felt him nuzzle into her. He stopped resisting and melted into her embrace, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.

His miserably cold façade had only begun to melt a handful of times; but this time in particular, the ice didn't return. She knew it as she watched him: mouth open slightly, waiting for her to plant her lips on his; chest heaving in anticipation; breaths coming out as jagged pants. He craved her. For a mere moment (that was all Maarit could bear to spare), his breath fanned over her lips.

       When she couldn't take it anymore, she grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled his mouth to hers. He kissed back as soon as their lips collided. This time, his kiss was filled with tension and longing, despondency and worry, hesitation and care. He translated all of this to her through the friction between their lips. It was searing and desire-filled and frantic. As he dipped his tongue into her mouth, her fingers wound through his hair and she couldn't help but tug on it.

Her own tongue traced the seam of his lips, as if to salve his brokenness. In response, he sighed into the kiss and backed her into the table once more until she was seated on it. They broke for air; Theodoracius gazed at her with heavy-lidded eyes until she pulled him back in and kissed him breathless once more.

He didn't seem to be able to decide where to put his hands: one instant, his hands were in her hair, knotting his fingers in it, tucking dark tresses behind her ear; the next, they were cupping her face, his thumb caressing her cheek and holding her jaw to angle her head to his. Then they were sliding down her neck, down her arms, only to hold her waist.

And then she was pulling away, gliding her mouth along the light stubble that clung to his jaw. He inhaled sharply when her hands, followed by her lips, touched the warm skin on his chest. She kissed along each of the scars before grappling for the buttons on his shirt, attempting to undo the rest.

"Maarit," he whined gently, his body a trembling mess. He stopped her, pulling her hands away from his shirt, which was open halfway. Shaking slightly, she met his eyes and suddenly became worried that she had made him uncomfortable by touching his scars. But he continued to stare back at her with unparalleled desire and said, almost pleadingly, "Come with me."

He offered her his hand, and she took it. Her knees were so weak that she could hardly bear to stand, but she did anyway and allowed the king to lead her away.

       Yes, Maarit thought to herself, her hand clutching onto Theodoracius's arm, yes, I truly have learned what it is like to swim in the stars. And I truly am utterly drunk on them.