Malfurion folded the last of his robes into the travel pack, smoothing the fabric with slow, deliberate hands. The room around him was nearly bare now—a narrow bed, a desk, a single shelf half-emptied in preparation for the journey back to Val'sharah.
A soft knock sounded. Her voice came through the door, warm as hearthfire. "May I come in?"
"Tyrande?"
He opened it at once.
She stood there holding a small woven basket, its cloth cover embroidered with silver thread. Her hair loose, curling gently around her shoulders, and the sight of her in his doorway made something inside him settle and rise at once.
"I brought… a picnic," she said, suddenly shy. "Well—a meal we won't have to rush."
He stepped aside to let her in, quiet gratitude softening every line of his face.
"You didn't have to."
"I wanted to."
The apprentice quarters were too small for formality. No table. No chairs. Just Malfurion's narrow bed and the floor worn smooth by years of pacing students.
Tyrande sat on the edge of the bed and opened the basket: sliced fruit, warm bread he suspected she had coaxed from the kitchen herself, moonberry preserves, and a small flask she lifted with sheepish pride.
"I made the tea."
He smiled—helplessly, honestly. "Then it will be perfect."
They ate close, knees brushing in the small space, their voices hushed not out of secrecy but because the morning felt too gentle to disturb with anything louder than a murmur. They spoke of small things—the novices she trained, the forest he would return to, the letters they had promised.
At some point, their hands found each other's without thought.
At some point, the food in the basket was forgotten.
At some point, words slipped into quiet altogether.
The candles burned low.
Outside, the night deepened.
Inside, time softened until it no longer had edges at all.
Nothing was said.
Nothing needed to be.
The world narrowed to breath shared in the dark, to the quiet trust of two people who had chosen to lean into something new and fragile and real.
And when sleep finally came, it found them wrapped in the warmth of each other's arms.
Dawn crept through the window in pale gold streaks.
Tyrande stirred first, blinking against the soft light. For a moment she lay still, listening to the steady rhythm beneath her cheek—Malfurion's heartbeat, calm as the forest he loved.
He was silently observing her.
Their eyes met.
No awkwardness.
No sudden withdrawal.
Only a shy softness, a quiet smile that curved his mouth before he even knew it had formed.
"Good morning," he whispered.
Tyrande lifted her hand, brushing her fingers along his jaw in a touch that felt like a promise. "Good morning."
He leaned in and kissed her—tender, unhurried, the kind of kiss that held gratitude rather than urgency. When he drew back, her breath trembled, and his eyes warmed in a way that made the whole room feel lighter.
"I can't wait to read your first letter," he said softly.
She smiled—full, radiant, certain.
"Then I'll write soon."
They lingered in that brightness a moment longer, no need to rush, no need to name what had changed.
The sun rose.
The world waited.
And the space between them was no longer empty.
Only full.
Only warm.
Only theirs.