The hills beyond Suramar breathed cool and sharp, scented with pine and damp earth. The bustle of the city was far behind them now; here only the trees reigned, and the hush of small creatures moved through the underbrush as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Lytavis walked sure-footed ahead of him, bow slung easily across her shoulder, braid brushing against her back as she crouched to study the faintest trace of tracks pressed into the loam.
"Two rabbits," she whispered, pointing. "Not far. See how the grass bends? The smaller one circled back."
Illidan crouched beside her, but the tilt of his mouth betrayed his disinterest. He tried—he truly did—but the ground whispered little to him. His eyes strayed instead to her profile, the faint line of her cheek, the way her hands skimmed over moss and stone like she was touching old friends.
"You'll hear them before you see them," she murmured, nocking an arrow.
Her bow thrummed, and minutes later she returned with a neat catch—two rabbits hanging from her belt. She grinned, cheeks flushed from the chase.
"You should have loosed one yourself," she teased.
Illidan smirked, though it was rueful. "I'd rather not be laughed out of the woods by your raven."
Skye croaked above them as if to agree. Lytavis laughed until she had to press her hand over her mouth.
At dusk, they roasted the rabbits over a small fire, with herbs gathered from the path hissing in the flames. Ginger padded close, curling smugly near Lytavis's boots; Skye perched on a low branch, feathers glossy in the firelight, sharp eye fixed on the meat.
It wasn't a feast.
It was something better.
When the bones had been stripped and the fire burned to embers, Lytavis spread their single bedroll on the moss. She smoothed the fabric, then gave him a look from under her lashes.
"There's no sense pretending we're not both freezing."
Illidan hesitated for all of a heartbeat. Then he lay down beside her. When she shifted into his arms, the world fell startlingly quiet.
Her warmth was everything.
Her cheek pressed to his chest, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the faint scent of smoke and jasmine in her hair—all of it threatened to undo him.
He cupped her face and kissed her. Once. Twice. And then again until they were both breathless. Her fingers grasped his tunic; his hand trembled against her jaw.
He couldn't breathe.
He tore himself back with a ragged exhale.
"I need…" His voice was rough, his chest tight. He pushed himself up, stumbling into the dark.
Lytavis lay back, lips tingling, heart hammering. She stared at the stars until her pulse slowed.
He returned several long minutes later, a bit unsteady but no longer trembling. He lowered himself beside her and pulled her into his arms without hesitation, tucking her head beneath his chin as if she belonged there. His voice was low, honest, stripped of any bravado.
"I've never…" His throat tightened. "I've never been with anyone."
Lytavis's breath caught. She pressed a gentle hand to his chest. "I haven't either."
He exhaled sharply—relief, gratitude, something softer.
She shifted just enough to look up at him. "We'll know when it's right," she whispered. "We don't have to rush anything."
His arms tightened around her, slow and certain.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I want… I want our first time to be yours and mine. Not the result of a cold night or a moment we couldn't stop."
She kissed him then, warm and sure.
"Then sleep," she whispered, nestling closer.
And the wild grew quiet around them.
Dawn spilled soft and gold across the hills. Illidan stirred first, finding her still curled against him, their fingers intertwined as though they had slept that way all their lives. For a long, stunned moment he simply watched her breathe, feeling the world turn beneath him with a steadiness he had never known.
Her lashes fluttered. Blue eyes warmed by sleep found his. She smiled—small, sincere, utterly unguarded.
"I love you," she said.
No tremor. No hesitation. Just truth laid bare in the morning hush.
Illidan went still. The words hit him like a tide breaking against stone—wonder, terror, and something achingly sweet all tangled into one breath he couldn't seem to draw.
He had no grin for this. No shield of sarcasm. Only the wild, bewildered beat of his heart and the woman who held it without even trying.
Slowly—as if approaching a sacred thing—he bent and kissed her. Softer than the night before. Reverent. Fragile. As though one wrong breath might shatter the moment.
She kissed him back with quiet certainty, her hand brushing his cheek, steadying what she had just undone.
When they parted, the air between them felt brighter than the dawn itself.