There are people, perhaps, who handle such situations elegantly, with grace. The depths of their feelings makes them poignant, their words the right combination of all-knowing and reverence. Howell was not one such person. The knowledge that this witch could love him, truly so, even one-tenth of what he felt for her, made him clumsy with relief and love and thankfulness.
He watched her with an expression of awe, edged with polite confusion. Surely he had not heard her correctly. Had she said what he thought—? Had he said what he—?
"Sorry?" Howell croaked. "You—you love me?"
The laughter came then, though it was disbelieving and carried a slight edge to it. Here they were, just two kids, really, hiding under the stadium of their old school's pitch. What were they even doing? Why did he care? What did anything matter, in all honesty, except this?
Her hands still clinging to his, he brought them up where they hovered, just a whisper away from her chin. "You love me," he whispered again, eyes fixed on her lips, as if looking at the source from where the words had been spoken from would make it seem more real. Howell gripped Saoirse's fingers tightly with his own as he looked her in the tear-brimming eye. His own might have had an unearthly sheen to them as well. "I love you."
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