{ moment } who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman
"Oh, no, no, no-"
With one hand out in front of her and the other looking for what's behind her as she hurries backwards in a tangle of her own skirts, Petra shakes her head and thinks briefly, madly, that her broad and relieved smile is probably not bolstering her authority. "No," she says, more firmly and losing ground, "you reek of metal and sweat and horses and- put me down this instant-"
"Petrana," Davidias says, his voice sweet reason and his grip impossible to wriggle free of, "I have missed you. Your dress will survive my attention."
"Your sword is digging into my hip," she replies, with dignity, and at his consternated expression she laughs until she realizes she's weeping, curling her fingers into his hair and pressing her face into his throat. Months of not knowing, of hearing whispers about the casualties and never any names, of waiting, of nightmares about a war that tore apart a continent and somehow never touched her life but for his absence. And he's here, his injuries healing and his eyes only a little darker than she remembers.
"You smell terrible," she hiccups, eventually. "You have to bathe before you see the children."
"Yes, dear."
"Davidias."
"You're as changeable as the weather, woman. Dry your eyes and ready the bath. -and stay."
"Yes, dear."
She glares at him over her shoulder when he slaps her backside as she passes him. "I know you haven't taken me for a tavern wench."
"Never, my wife. Where are the girls?" he asks innocently, watching her at the doorway. (His hip aches and the physician says the knee will heal 'enough' if he doesn't trouble it, which he takes to mean that the only person who'll pay for it if he doesn't rest is him the next time he rides into battle, but he's home and he could give a damn. At least for what's left of today.)
"With Ekatera and her seamstress. I didn't know you'd come today-"
Until he arrived, she hadn't been sure he was coming at all.