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[Cezanne Abella]

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Home.

The word set images whirling through her mind. What dreams had she spent, and gladly so, imagining what it would be like to have him home again? Remembering the heedless toss of his long dark hair, and the almost arrogant way he carried his stories – wore them like a cloak that protected him from the warmth and welcome of home, never allowing them to touch him so deeply that he couldn't shrug them off again when he took flight.

But Zeph's stormy eyes scanned the warmly-lit theatre and gathered to him every nuance, knothole and candle flame, as if he saw it for the first time. The quiet table in corner of the balcony afforded him the freedom to be no less and no more than exactly who he was.

“This last job, it got to me, 'Anne.” His eyes were empty as he spoke – bereft of the mischievous sparkle that always danced as he spun his stories. This time, there was no narrow escape. No swordfight dancing along the wall. No happy ending. Nothing that he could touch and call his. Only heartache and a yearning for home.

“Comes a time when you have to ask yourself if this is all there is.” Zeph took her hand and turned it over in his, examining the scar around her wrist thoughtfully. “All I could think about was this place, and you here in it.”

Cezanne raked her fingers through her dark auburn curls and sighed, her mind still reeling. “How many nights have I thought of you, and wondered if you were all right? Were you cold? Hungry? Hurt? I always had to convince myself you could take care of yourself. It was the only answer I could stomach.”

At that moment the haze of Malas had nothing on his storm-tossed gaze as he lifted it to her. “I've spent my whole life being able to take care of myself, 'Anne. It's time I see if I can take care of you.”