Lyra stood barefoot in the quiet kitchen, the kettle warming on the stove as sunlight slanted through the windows. The hush of the house was familiar now—soft, lived-in, and entirely theirs. Kaja snored gently by her feet, and somewhere beyond the fields came the rhythmic call of wild birds waking the day.

Hassian had already gone, out before first light on a morning hunt. He always left a note if he headed out before she woke. Today’s was folded neatly beside her teacup, a small wildflower tucked against it. Only a few words: Love you, baby. Just stay safe.
She smiled, pressing the note to her chest.

This was their life now.
Not the breathless, new beginning they’d shared just months ago, but something deeper—a rhythm. A settling. Mornings apart more often than not, afternoons spent on their own work, evenings by the fire or at the forge. But nights… always together. Dinners at the small outdoor table. Laughter, warmth, quiet affection. Then later, curled together in their Nest, their breathing syncing as if their hearts had long since learned the same rhythm.

It wasn’t always effortless. But it was theirs.

She carried her tea into the living room and curled up beneath Chayne’s quilt. Her thoughts drifted toward her work with Jina. What had started as a casual favor had become something larger—a curiosity she couldn’t quite let go of. The mysteries surrounding the emergence were still unsolved, but Lyra felt the pull of it more each day, the sense that answers waited somewhere in the shadows of the temple ruins.

Her mind, as it always did, circled back to Hassian.

He had shifted his entire life to make space for her. Mornings still belonged to the hunt, and he spent time at the forge, but much of his old solitude had faded. He hadn’t stayed a night in the Grove in months.

He said he was happy. And she believed him. But sometimes—when she caught him staring at the fire a little too long, or lingering at the garden’s edge with that far-off look—she wondered if he ever missed it. The quiet. The solitude. The version of himself that belonged only to the wild.

The thought didn’t hurt so much as it humbled her. She never wanted him to feel caged by love.

Once, she had been determined to build a life for herself here. Now, she was determined to build a life with him.

They shared the work of the household without ever needing to speak of it. She cooked when she had time; he did when she didn’t. Laundry, gardening, small repairs—whoever noticed, did it. It was a simple kind of harmony.
And in that simplicity lived their joy.

“Hello, handsome,” she’d say when he came through the door. “Hello, beautiful,” he’d answer, even if she was covered in ogopuu slime. “Just stay safe,” was how they parted. “You’re here,” he always whispered in the dark. “I’m not going anywhere,” was her answer. Always. He liked to call her mine—and every time, her heart stuttered the same way it had the first night he said it.

Lyra closed her eyes and breathed it all in: the steam from her tea, Kaja’s soft snores, the faint scent of smoke clinging to Hassian’s coat by the door.

This was peace. The kind she’d never thought she’d find.

But peace didn’t mean stillness. Life would move, as it always did. Work, change, discovery. Maybe even something bigger—something lasting.

She smiled faintly to herself, the warmth of quiet certainty blooming in her chest.

Whatever came next, they’d face it together.

Anchored

The morning air was sharp against his face, the forest alive with the scent of dew and pine. Every sound came clear and familiar—the rustle of leaves, the crackle of branches beneath Tau’s paws, the low hum of wind through the trees. He had always found peace in the hunt.

But lately, his mind had a way of wandering home.

He moved silently through the undergrowth, eyes scanning for tracks, but his thoughts drifted to Lyra—barefoot in the kitchen, hair still mussed from sleep, smile soft as morning light. The image settled in his chest like warmth spreading from a campfire.

Once, this had been all he needed: the woods, the solitude, the hunt. But the quiet he used to crave now felt hollow without her laughter filling its edges.
He thought he’d needed the Grove to feel rooted—to be himself. But he didn’t. The sense of belonging, of being anchored, had shifted. Home wasn’t a place anymore. It was her.

Still, there were moments when worry tugged at him like an old wound. The unknowns of the emergence. The fact that no one understood how the humans had arrived, or what might one day call them back. What if something beyond his reach took her away? The thought struck like a blade to the ribs.

He exhaled slowly, forcing the air from his lungs, grounding himself in the steady rhythm of breath and forest. He would not let fear steal what was in front of him.

He crouched, brushing his fingers through damp moss, eyes tracing the faint pattern of tracks. There would always be unknowns—things beyond control. But some things… some things he could choose.

A hearth. A purpose. Someone to share it with.

That had always been what he wanted.

And now, the stars had given him all three.

He straightened, sunlight filtering through the canopy to warm his shoulders, and found himself smiling. She was patient with him, in ways he’d never known patience could be. She understood the quiet parts of him—the ones he rarely showed. She never asked him to be more than what he was, yet somehow she made him want to be more anyway.

He thought of permanence—not as a cage, but as a promise. Marriage. A bond that said no matter what came, she would never have to wonder where she belonged.

Not someday. Not far off.
He was ready.

He lifted his gaze toward the horizon, the forest stretching endless and golden before him, and murmured to the quiet air,

“All I ever wanted was a hearth… a purpose… and someone to share it with.”
His lips curved faintly. “And she’s more than I ever thought I’d have.”

He called softly for Tau and started toward home, the weight of the morning’s hunt balanced easily on his shoulders—but the weight in his heart lighter than it had been in years.

Because he wasn’t just coming back from the forest.
He was coming home.

Home

The sun was high by the time he returned. Lyra was outside, brushing the last of the dirt from her hands after tending the garden. She looked up when she heard his boots on the path, and that smile—the one that never failed to pull him in—lit her face.

“Hello, handsome,” she said, voice soft but teasing.

“Hello, beautiful,” he answered, leaning down to brush a kiss against her temple. She smelled like lavender and sun-warmed earth. “You’ve been busy.”

“Just keeping our little garden alive,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron before slipping them around his waist.

His arms came around her, firm and familiar. For a moment neither of them spoke. The world had narrowed to this—her heartbeat, his steady breathing, the rustle of leaves in the distance.

They’d known each other long enough now to move without thinking: her fingers brushing his jaw, his thumb tracing idle circles at her back. The spark between them hadn’t dimmed; it had simply settled into something deeper, steadier—a quiet warmth that burned just as fiercely as the beginning.

“Long day?” she asked against his chest.

“Good day,” he said. “Better now.”

Lyra smiled against him, the kind that said everything without words.

And as the light faded, the two of them stood there, wrapped in the ease of something they’d built together—something that felt less like new love and more like home.