The moon had risen high by the time the last of the tea was gone and Kaja and Tau had settled into a pile, snoring softly. The conservatory glowed with gentle candlelight, flickering against glass walls and casting everything in a golden hush. Outside, the world was still.

Inside, there was only them.

Lyra stood at the open window, letting the night breeze lift her hair. Her ankle still throbbed faintly, but the cool air soothed it. Behind her, she heard Hassian’s quiet footsteps — a sound as familiar as her own heartbeat.

“Still thinking about earlier?” he asked, his voice low.

“Some,” she admitted, not turning just yet. “It was a lot.”

He stepped behind her, not touching, but close enough that she felt his warmth at her back. “You scared me a little today.”

She turned then, meeting his gaze. “I know. I hated that look on your face. But I meant it—I’ll be careful. I won’t take risks with my life. Not when it already belongs to you.”

That stopped him. For a long moment, he only looked at her, like she was the first and last thing he ever wanted to see.
Then he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his palm settling gently against her cheek. “Come here.”

He led her to the bed — that soft, welcoming space that had become theirs. Draped in coral blankets and lily-colored pillows, it smelled faintly of lavender and spice, like her.

He sat first, drawing her between his legs, his arms circling her waist. He tilted his head, pressing a slow kiss just below her navel through the thin fabric of her sleep shirt — a quiet, possessive reminder.

“You’ve ruined me, you know,” he murmured. “I used to go weeks without needing anyone. Now I can’t go half a day without you.”

Lyra smiled, fingers sliding into his hair. “Then we’re both ruined.”

He looked up at her, eyes dark and tender, drinking her in. “You’re not just beautiful,” he said softly, his lips tracing the line of her shoulder, the curve of her neck. “You’re magnetic. Every part of me responds to you before my mind even catches up.”

She straddled his lap slowly, her knees sinking into the bed on either side of him. Her hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing his cheek as she leaned in.

Their kiss began soft — patient, savoring. But the warmth between them built, like slow-burning embers coaxed to flame. His hands slipped under her shirt, palms gliding up her back, mapping familiar territory with reverent awe.

Lyra’s lips curved against his as she drew back just long enough to pull her shirt over her head and toss it aside. “Don’t hold back,” she whispered.

“I’m not,” he breathed, voice rougher now. “I couldn’t even if I tried.”

He laid her down, his weight settling between her thighs. The way she opened to him — without fear, without hesitation — undid him completely.

They undressed each other with reverence, yes, but also with hunger. Not frantic, but deep, inevitable. Passion and trust twining until they were indistinguishable.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, guiding his mouth down her throat, her collarbone, lower. His touch burned and soothed in equal measure, each kiss a silent promise. He worshiped her until she trembled and gasped beneath him.

When he finally joined with her, it was with a groan he didn’t try to hide — like coming home to a place he’d never known he’d been missing.
Every brush of her skin pulled him deeper, drawn as tide to moon. He wasn’t choosing this hunger anymore; he was answering it.
They moved together slowly at first, savoring the closeness, the heartbeat beneath the heat. But soon, the rhythm built — a language of sighs and murmured names, of fingertips gripping tighter, of breath shared between parted lips.

Hassian buried his face in the crook of her neck. “You make me feel so alive,” he whispered.

Her breath hitched, and she clung to him tighter, unraveling completely as he found that familiar place that drew her to the edge.

Afterward, the world fell quiet again. Candlelight flickered against glass and skin alike, soft and golden.
They lay tangled together, limbs heavy and hearts still racing. Her head rested on his chest, her hand curled loosely over his heart where his pin would usually rest.

He stroked her back in slow, lazy circles, fingertips tracing invisible paths down her spine. “You’re everything,” he murmured.

She looked up, her voice thick with drowsy affection. “So are you.”

Hassian rested his forehead against hers, lips brushing the curve of her hairline. “I need to know,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “that you feel safe. That nothing can touch you while you’re with me.”

“I do,” she whispered back. “With you, I’m always safe.”

Their lips brushed once more before she settled against him, her body relaxing fully into his. Within moments, she drifted to sleep.

Hassian didn’t. Not yet.

He stared up through the glass panes above them, watching starlight shimmer faintly across the ceiling. One arm held her close; the other moved in gentle patterns along her arm. He pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing her in — lavender, warmth, the faint spice that always lingered on her skin. This was what it meant to be hers. To love her, hold her, protect her. Even when the world outside felt uncertain.

A breeze whispered through the conservatory, stirring the chimes near the window.

Lyra shifted, mumbling sleepily, “Cold…”

He drew the blanket higher and pulled her closer. “You’re here,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. In this life, in every life, for as long as the stars remembered their names.