The rest of the afternoon passed with the kind of easy rhythm that had quietly become theirs.

Lyra handled the garden—trimming herbs, humming to her tomatoes, chasing a wayward mantis out of the pepper bed.

Hassian hauled in firewood, then gave Tau and Kaja their long-overdue bath, emerging soaked, scratched, and entirely unconvinced they hadn’t enjoyed the ordeal more than he did. Kaja escaped twice. Tau sulked like he'd been betrayed.

Afterward, Hassian spent nearly as long cleaning the bathroom as he had washing the plumehounds, muttering under his breath about mud, fur, and how love apparently meant suffering.

Inside, Lyra swept and dusted and finally coaxed a reluctant blueberry pie into behaving. The house slowly took on the scent of lemon soap and fresh linens, settling around them like a promise.

By the time the sun had begun to drift toward the treetops, they’d met in the kitchen—where most of their real conversations happened—and dinner was already beginning to sizzle.

Unseen

The kitchen was warm with the smell of corn and spice, the flicker of candlelight casting soft gold on the walls. Hassian was already seated at the table, hair still damp from an earlier wash, and eyes on the plate in front of him like it might be gold.

“Fried catfish,” he said, excitedly. “You spoil me.”

“You say that like it’s a complaint,” she teased.

He smiled—just a small curve of his lips as he picked up his fork. “Wouldn’t dare. And you know this is one of my favorites.”

They ate in the quiet way they always did when they were both too tired for chatter but too content for silence. The corn was sweet, the potatoes perfectly crisp. Hassian made a low sound of appreciation after the first bite and didn’t speak again until his plate was half gone.

Lyra set her fork down and leaned back. “Subira wants me to check out the Underground Market.”

Hassian didn’t flinch, didn’t even stop chewing. He swallowed, took a drink, and said, “Flow?”

Lyra nodded. “She thinks it might be trafficked through there. She asked if I knew anything about it.”

He raised a brow. “And you said?”

“That I’d heard things.”

He snorted. “Never been there myself, but even I know about it. Killima’s worst-kept secret.”

She smiled faintly, then gestured toward the rug under the table. “You like that rug?”

He glanced down like he was only now realizing it existed. “Sure. Never really noticed it.”

“It came from there.”

That pulled his attention fully to her. Not judgment—just interest. “You’ve been?”

“Plenty of times.”

“Then why tell Subira you’ve only heard of it?”

“Because I’m not throwing our neighbors to the sharks,” she said simply. “Zeki owns the place. Half of Killima’s been down there playing hotpot.”

“What’s a hotpot?”

“A card game.”

He let that hang for a second, then nodded. “Sounds rigged.”

“Probably is....”

He smirked a little at that, took another bite, then set his fork down. “So what are you gonna do?”

She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “I need to be seen poking around. Ask a few questions. Report back.”

He watched her for a moment, then asked, “Do you know if Flow’s being trafficked through there?”

Lyra hesitated. “You hear things.”

“Have you seen anything?”

“No.”

“Then your answer is simple,” he said, voice low, steady. “‘I didn’t see anything.’"

She looked at him. “It feels like lying.”

“It’s not,” he said, matter-of-fact. “You didn’t see anything.”

Another quiet stretch passed between them. Then she pushed her chair back and stood. “I’m going to run down there now, make an appearance. I won’t be gone long.”

He stood too, stepping into her space. “I’ll be waiting, baby. Just stay safe.”

She rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Always.”

Watch Your Back

The Underground Market buzzed with its usual, casual defiance of the rules. Lyra walked in like she belonged—because she did. She made her way straight to the bar, where Reth was already grabbing a glass.

“Fruity, sweet, and mildly embarrassing to drink in public?” he asked with a smirk.

Lyra grinned. “Extra fruit wedge. I’m feeling wild.”

He started mixing. “Broody hunter with the big dog showing up?”

Lyra shook her head. “This isn’t really his kind of place. Nothing to shoot.”

Reth arched a brow. “You sure? I get the feeling I’m still pretty high on his list of things to shoot.”

She sipped the drink as he set it down. “You’re not,” she said — then added, “Probably.”

His laugh was half-hearted. He was tense—trying to hide it, but she could feel it like static in the air. She leaned forward slightly, keeping her voice low.

“Subira suspects Flow is being trafficked through here.”

Reth froze for half a beat, then scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “Great. So I’m going to jail.”

“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” Lyra said calmly. “She asked if I knew anything. I told her I’d heard of the place. She asked me to check it out.”

“And?”

“I’m going to tell her I saw people playing cards, buying furniture, and eating overpriced stew,” Lyra said. “Nothing illegal. Nothing strange.”

Reth let out a slow breath. “She doesn’t know about Tish.”

“No,” Lyra said softly. “And neither does Tish. Right?”

He nodded, jaw tight. “It’s the only thing that keeps her stable. I don’t like it. I hate doing this. But if it means she can wake up and function and feel like herself… I’ll keep doing it.”

Lyra nodded. “I get it… I know why you’re doing what you’re doing. I just wanted you to be aware. She’s sniffing around.”

Reth gave a short nod. “Thanks for the warning.”

Lyra stepped back from the bar, casting a last glance around. “I knew Subira’s arrival was going to cause trouble.”

Reth gave a weary grin. “You and me both.”

Lyra raised her glass in a half-toast. “Stay careful, Reth.”

“You too,” he said. “Tell Hassian I said… never mind. Don’t tell him anything.”

She smirked. “Probably best.”

And with that, she slipped back into the crowd, already thinking about how to word her report.

Quiet Return

The house was dark when Lyra returned, save for the golden glow spilling from the conservatory windows. She toed off her boots at the door, letting the silence of home settle around her like a soft shawl.

Hassian was in the conservatory, as she knew he would be.

He was half-slouched in the armchair, long legs stretched out, arms crossed, eyes closed. One of her books lay forgotten in his lap — a dog-eared crime novel he always claimed not to enjoy, yet somehow kept picking up. His breathing was slow, deep. Asleep, or just pretending to be?

She walked over quietly, letting her fingers ghost through the ends of his hair as she passed in front of him. He opened one eye. Just one. "You're late."

"You're dramatic," she whispered with a smirk, leaning down to brush her lips across his temple.

"Did you find anything?"

She hesitated for a second. Then, honestly: "Nothing I can say I saw."

He made a soft sound — not quite approval, not quite concern — and reached for her hand, weaving his fingers through hers.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“No. Just tired. Been waiting on you.”

She leaned against the side of his chair, her free hand drifting across his chest. "I missed you."

“I noticed.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Come to bed, beautiful.”

She nodded and let him lead the way, the two of them moving in perfect rhythm — quiet steps, the rustle of bedding, the low creak of the frame as they settled. No heat tonight. Just warmth. Familiarity. The soft press of her back to his chest. The comfort of knowing she wasn’t carrying the weight of the world alone.

Tomorrow, there would be chaos, but tonight was theirs.