The night of the Rho deer, Mara arrived in her dreams with certainty that something more than grief and longing were at work in their construction.

She opened her eyes to bright sunshine slanting across white cotton covers, her body sprawled atop a four-poster bed. She heard birds, and turned her head on the downy pillow to see an open window to the right. The air smelled of the mountains, and beyond the chattering birds she could hear the whistle of crisp wind. It did not escape her that she somehow knew the smell of the mountains despite never having been there.

“You’re awake.”

She turned her head to the left. “Davy,” she said, unsurprised to find him lounging in the open doorway, eyes sparkling.

“Who were you expecting?” he teased as he prowled into the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

“You.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to brush a tangle of hair away from her face, and she took a moment just to look at him. At the proud sweep of his brows, the clarity of his green eyes, the ever-present tilt at the corners of his mouth–his perpetual smirk.

She sat, reaching out to smooth her thumb over the worry line between his brows, like she always did. She loved and hated that little line, that subtle proof that he didn’t carry his burdens as easily as it seemed. Hated it because she wanted only ease and joy for the man she loved so much. Loved it because it spoke of his purpose, his strength.

“Are you alright?” he asked, mirroring her gesture and pressing his thumb to the tension she felt between her own brows.

“I miss you,” she said, watching his easy expression falter and then fall.

“I’m sorry.” He captured her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, his voice ragged. “I am so, so sorry Mara.”

“I miss you.”

He gathered her up in his arms, tucking her head beneath his chin and rocking her like a child as she finally wept. Wept all the tears she hadn’t since that first, devastated rush of grief at the Hive. “I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

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“You left us.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I miss you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Over and over, again and again, they repeated the litany as he rocked her and she cried. And perhaps it was a figment of the dream that when she finally pulled away from his embrace, night had fallen outside the open window. Or maybe she really had cried the day away. She guessed it was the latter. Her swollen eyes were hot to the touch, her chest and stomach aching from the constant heaving, gasping sobs. Davy had produced, somehow, a steady supply of fresh handkerchiefs to wipe her eyes and nose, but her face bore the dusty residue of tears, her nose sore and stinging.

“Lay with me,” Davy said, stretching out atop the covers and pulling her close. She went to him readily, resting her head on his chest and listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of what Eli had told her, all those days ago. Tried not to imagine the cruel edges of an arrowhead slicing through the strong, beating heart, silencing the lullaby. Living without him was an agony. How could she sleep, if his heart wasn’t waiting in her dreams to soothe her?

“Where are we?” she asked, slipping her palm beneath the hem of his shirt to rest against the curve of his ribs. Her hands were cold, but he didn’t flinch away from her touch.

“I don’t know.”

“Is this real?”

“It feels real.”

She turned her attention back to the beat of his heart, the warmth of his skin against her palm. “It does.”

“You know we can’t stay forever.”

She lifted her head and propped her chin on his chest, gazing into his clear green eyes. “But I can come back tomorrow night?” He grinned–a playful, inviting thing–and she rose up, pressing a kiss to one side of his smile and then the other. “If I’m good?”

“Only if you’re good. Find some happiness today. Promise me.”

She kissed him again, on the tip of his nose.

“I promise.”

When she went to lay back down, to rest her head once more on his chest and let the soft song of his heartbeat carry her into deeper dreams, she found herself blinking at sunlit canvas, her head pillowed on her own forearm.

She rose, grumpy as ever but with a renewed sense of purpose.

Tonight she would return to that four-poster bed, to the arms of the man she loved. She wouldn’t ask questions of the gift she’d been given. She would only savor it, making up for all the times when he still lived, when she had loved him but neglected to cherish him. When she had lain in his arms while her mind wandered elsewhere.

The dreams were a gift. What more they were would surely reveal itself with time. For now, they were only a gift, and she would do anything not to squander them.

So, today, she intended to do what she had promised.

Today, she would find some happiness.