The tavern had begun to thin out, the hearth’s warmth giving way to the cooler breath of night. Most of the regulars had already filtered home, their laughter fading down Kilima’s winding roads, but Lyra lingered near the bar, her fingertips drumming absently against the rim of her glass. Plum wine clung to the sides in the low lamplight, the last sip untouched.

She wasn’t alone.

Hassian stood a few feet off, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed loosely, waiting while Sifuu finished a particularly animated story involving a broken hinge, an angry Badruu, and three jars of pickled onions. His smile was patient—though slightly glazed—and when his gaze drifted to Lyra, there was a softness in it that made her spine lengthen, her pulse quicken.

He never stayed this long after closing the forge. And he never had more than one drink. Hassian didn’t like being altered.
But here he was, a second mug in hand, cheeks touched with the faintest color—more, she suspected, from her than the ale. His hair was damp from the wash, falling loose around his shoulders, his work clothes still clinging with the day’s soot. A small burn marked the cuff of his tunic. Lyra grinned at it—somehow, it only made him more himself.

Eventually Sifuu excused herself with a knowing smile, clapping Hassian on the shoulder. “Try not to overthink it son,” she murmured, just loud enough for Lyra to catch.

Hassian muttered something under his breath, but when he looked at Lyra again, the glance wasn’t nerves.

It was intent.

Outside, night wrapped around them like velvet—cool, fragrant, and still. Kilima’s streets had hushed, the moon rising over the village, casting silver across rooftops. They walked close, their hands brushing occasionally, drawn together by some invisible current neither resisted.

At the fork in the road, Lyra opened her mouth to wish him goodnight—but Hassian reached out first, catching her hand. His was warm, solid, faintly clammy.

“Lyra,” he said, voice low but steady. “I want to be with you.”

Her heart answered before her lips did, thudding loud enough she swore he could hear. A small, breathless laugh escaped as she pressed her hand more firmly into his. “I want that too.”

His thumb brushed her knuckles—rough, gentle, grounding. He bent just enough to touch his forehead to hers, and she leaned in, her world narrowing to the heat of him.

When he kissed her, it was slow, unhurried—a promise of all the time in the world. Lyra hummed into it, approval soft against his mouth, and when they parted, their hands never did. Together they followed the moonlit path that wound toward the Grove.

The clearing welcomed them in its quiet way, the fire’s glow faint but waiting. Smoke curled lazily toward the pines. Lyra paused at the edge of the blanket, noticing instantly—someone had been here not long ago. Normally it would be cold and empty by this hour. Her chest tightened with a thrill. He had prepared it. For her.

She knelt on the fur, easing off her boots, the soft pile brushing her ankles. Hassian stirred the embers until the flames licked brighter, shadows stretching over the pillows. His boots landed beside hers, and for a long moment they only sat close, measuring each other in the hush.

“You were ready,” she said softly, eyes bright.

“I hoped you’d be,” he murmured, his hand rising to her cheek, tilting her face toward his.

The kiss began soft—tentative, careful, as if neither wanted to risk rushing what already felt inevitable. Lyra melted into it, feeling the strength of his hands at her shoulders, the warmth of his body leaning closer. When Hassian deepened the kiss, heat ran through her veins, grounding her entirely in him. His touch wasn’t hurried; it was deliberate, reverent, as though he meant to map her by memory.

Hands wandered in patient arcs—over shoulders, down arms, across curves that neither had fully explored until now. Lyra’s fingers brushed the edge of his tunic, the fabric coarse under her touch, and she felt the warmth of him beneath. Their mouths drifted, testing, lingering, tasting the newness of skin—cheek, jaw, throat. Careful, yet hungry.

“I’ve never wanted anything so much,” Hassian whispered against her ear, the tremor in his voice betraying just how close he was to unraveling.

Lyra shivered, her pulse answering him, her body leaning closer still. The anticipation stretched between them until it felt like a living thing, taut and trembling. She gave herself over to it, to him, to the gravity that pulled them both further.

When his hand slid beneath her shirt, she shifted instinctively, straddling his lap. His breath caught. In the next heartbeat, her shirt and bra were gone, leaving her bare to the firelight.

Hassian’s gaze darkened. For a suspended moment he simply looked at her—like a man holding the most dangerous, most sacred thing he’d ever been given. His hands skimmed down her sides, settling at her hips, reverent and possessive in equal measure.

“You’re so beautiful, baby,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse.

He leaned in, kissing along the slope of her neck, beneath her chin, the curve of her shoulder. Each touch drew a deeper hum from her throat. Then, with a steadiness that belied the fire in him, he lifted her gently and laid her down on the blanket.

The embers glowed hotter as he lowered himself over her, trailing kisses down her body. His mouth claimed her breasts, slow and savoring, before continuing down the soft line of her stomach. Lyra arched into him, every nerve alive, every sound she made coaxing him lower.

When he peeled away her last barrier, he slid down between her thighs. A shiver rippled through her as he pressed slow, reverent kisses to the insides of her legs before finding her center, she whispered his name like a prayer.

And Hassian—steady, relentless, reverent—answered her with his mouth. He took her apart slowly, as though it were art, as though each sound she made was the only truth he’d ever need. Lyra’s fingers tangled in his hair, her voice breaking on his name again and again until pleasure overtook her in a rush, leaving her trembling, undone.

Even then, he didn’t stop until she gently pushed at his shoulders. Only then did he lift his head, his lips slick, his eyes alight with something dark and tender all at once.

Hassian rose, jaw tight with restraint. He shed his own clothes in quick, impatient motions, then braced himself above her, his hand gentle against her cheek.
“I’ve been wanting this for so long,” he admitted, voice deep and unsteady.

“So have I,” Lyra whispered, her breath ragged. Then, softer: “Hassian, be patient with me.”

His forehead dropped to hers, his hand rubbing up and down her arm in a steady, calming rhythm. “Of course. If you don’t want to right now—”

“No,” she interrupted, firm despite the tremor in her voice. “I do want to. I want you. It’s just… it might not be my body’s first time, but for me…” Her voice cracked. “…it is.”

Hassian’s throat worked, and he shut his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, his gaze was fierce, tender, protective. “I’ll take care of you, baby. I promise.”

Her hand slid to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. She whispered against his lips, “Just don’t hold back.”

And that—more than her touch, more than the fire in her eyes—undid him completely.

A rough sound tore from his chest as he pressed forward, entering her slowly, as though memorizing every breath, every shiver. He paused, forehead pressed to hers, their breaths mingling. She gasped at the stretch, clutching his shoulders, but she didn’t pull away.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered, voice breaking. His hand found her hip, guiding her, holding her steady as he eased deeper.

Her nails dug crescents into his back, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him closer. Their lips brushed between gasped words and broken moans.

“You’re mine, baby,” he groaned against her mouth.

“Yes,” she breathed, meeting his thrusts with her own. “I’m yours, hunter.”

The rhythm built between them—slow at first, then stronger, like they were learning the steps to a song only they could hear. His voice caught against her ear.

“Just like that… Oh, Stars, you feel so good.”

“Don’t stop,” she begged, rocking against him, every nerve alight. “Please—don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he swore, the words ragged. “I couldn’t.”

And when he finally broke, it was with her name on his lips, his face buried against her neck, as if he could anchor himself there forever.

The urgency softened. The world shrank to the warmth of skin against skin, the gentle crackle of fire, the cool kiss of night air brushing across heated limbs. Hassian’s arm curved around Lyra’s shoulders, pulling her close, his heartbeat steady yet alive under her palm.

Lyra traced his jaw with feather-light kisses, then brushed along his temple and down his neck, each touch a quiet punctuation to the rhythm of their closeness. He tilted his head, fingers threading into her hair, holding her as she pressed against him, grounding herself in the steady, raw pulse of him.

When he lifted her hand to his lips, the kiss was deliberate, slow, intimate— a conversation in touch.
“Baby, I adore you,” he murmured, lips brushing her skin, as if each word needed the weight of contact.

“Hassian,” she breathed, soft but unwavering, pressing closer, letting the warmth of their shared breath, their racing hearts, mingle. Around them, the night whispered—the leaves rustling, the fire crackling—but nothing existed beyond their closeness.

He nuzzled against her, murmuring promises that needed no words. The world narrowed to them: the heat of bodies, the soft rhythm of touch, the fire’s glow dancing across their skin, the undeniable bond made visible in every lingering glance,every press, every shared sigh.

Later, before sleep claimed them, he brushed a kiss to her temple.
“You’re here,” he whispered. It wasn’t a question. Relief flickered in his eyes, unspoken but profound. He drew her closer, tucking her against his chest. The stars above burned bright, the fire beside them glowing gently. For the first time in a long while, Hassian didn’t doubt it—
He was exactly where he was meant to be.