The stars were just beginning to blink to life when Lyra stepped out from the treeline behind her house, the soft crunch of her boots muffled by damp earth. A faint glow flickered in the grass—fireflies, dancing in lazy spirals under the moonlight. She paused, letting the breeze kiss the back of her neck, and then her gaze landed on the small cluster of chairs near the conservatory.

Hassian was waiting for her.

He sat in one of the lawn chairs, long legs stretched out, arms resting on the armrests with a calm he didn't feel. Tau was sprawled beside him, tail thudding once when he spotted her. Kaja bounded after a cluster of glowing insects, leaping and spinning with joy under the stars.

The moment Hassian saw her, he stood. Relief passed over his face like a tide breaking against stone.

“You’re here,” he said, crossing the lawn without hesitation.

She stepped into his arms, and he kissed her forehead first, then her lips—brief, firm, lingering. The kind of kiss that said I was worried.

“I made dinner,” he murmured, brushing her hair back. “Put it away for you. Only take a minute to heat it up.”

Lyra rested her forehead against his chest and whispered, “Not just yet. I have to talk to you.”

He stilled. The relief slipped from his voice. His hand settled on her waist, but his body went alert.

“Is it bad?” he asked.

She didn’t speak. Just nodded.

He took a slow breath and led her to the chairs, never letting go of her hand. They sat side by side in the quiet dark, the soft chirp of crickets surrounding them like a lullaby. Hassian turned to face her fully. He closed his eyes for a long moment, centering himself. And when he opened them, she saw it—the man she’d fallen for. Steady. Grounded. The one she could fall apart in front of and know he wouldn’t move.

He reached for her hand, clasped it between both of his.
“You have my full attention.”

So she told him.
Everything.

About the secret archive under the Night Sky Temple. The console. The logs left behind—those seven broken pieces of a warning humanity never listened to. The forbidden Flow strain they called cosmosflow. The hidden protocols: Cosmos and Mirror. The implication that last night’s beam—and the current barriers around the orb—weren’t accidents, but echoes of ancient design.

And then—her voice faltered only briefly—she told him about the tap.

“Subira says the logs show it was activated in the Elderwood. She doesn’t know what it means yet. But she thinks it’s imperative we find out.”

Hassian’s gaze never left her. He didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t tense. He just listened—like he was made for this.

Lyra felt her throat tighten again. She swallowed it down.

“Subira told me she’d understand if I walked away. That this isn’t my burden to carry. At first… I told her I couldn’t. That I had to see it through. Not for the Order. Not for humanity. But for us. For our future.”

She exhaled. Her voice dropped.

“For answers to questions that… scare us. Even if we pretend they don’t.”

She paused again, looked down at their linked hands.

“But walking home, I realized—this isn’t fair. This isn’t a decision I can make alone. We share everything now. Our time, our space, our lives.”

She looked up at him, her voice soft but firm.

“We’ll share this too. If you tell me to walk away… I will. I won’t lose you to this.”

For the first time, Hassian moved. He shifted, reaching for her, and with quiet strength pulled her into his lap. She curled into him instantly, her arms around his shoulders, face tucked into the crook of his neck. His warmth surrounded her—solid, real, constant.

He held her close, his lips brushing against her hair.

“I need a minute to breathe, baby,” he whispered.

She felt him breathe under her cheek, steady but tight, like his lungs weren’t working right. His arms stayed around her, but his body had gone still.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and measured.

“I saw that light last night. Same as you.”

He didn’t have to say which light. That pulse of pink in the sky had lit up the entire valley—cut through the dark like the world was being summoned awake.

“The last time something like that happened…” he trailed off, jaw working. “You showed up.”

His hand lifted, brushing gently over her hairline, his fingers lingering there like he was grounding himself on her.

“And I can’t stop thinking about it—what happens if it stops being an arrival?” He paused, then added, quieter, “What if next time… it’s a departure?”

Her breath caught, but he didn’t look away.

“I hate this. I hate that there are things moving that I can’t stop. That I can’t track. I’d rather fight a muunjin barehanded than let you walk into something I can’t follow.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glinting with something not quite fear—but close.

“But hiding in the Nest isn’t going to stop the world from changing. And if it’s coming for us anyway…” He finally exhaled, slow and bitter. “Then I’d rather know. Before it tries to take you from me.”

He pulled back enough to meet her eyes fully, thumb brushing beneath her cheekbone.

“You’re so smart, baby. You have a knack for figuring these mysteries out. If anyone can, it’s you. So I won’t ask you to walk away. Not if it means standing still and doing nothing while the world decides for us.”

A long silence passed between them, quiet and weighty as dusk.

Then his mouth curved—just a little—and he nodded toward the house.

“Now, come on. Let me feed you.”

Needs

Dinner had been quiet—tender, almost reverent. Hassian had insisted on feeding her himself, reheating the stew and slicing bread like it was a ritual of devotion. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but she let him care for her, let his quiet presence smooth out the ragged edges left by the temple.

He stayed near, a steady presence at her side, his thigh brushing hers beneath the table, his hand resting palm-up between them until she laced her fingers through it.

When they moved to the conservatory afterward, the world shrank to just the two of them again. The glass dome above glowed silver with starlight. Fireflies drifted in lazy arcs near the ceiling, and the scent of blooming lilac hung heavy in the air.

Hassian took off his boots and tugged his overshirt free, revealing the soft linen undershirt clinging to his frame. She watched the slow roll of muscle as he stretched, a ripple beneath sun-warmed skin. He looked like something carved out of strength and shadow. Solid. Grounded.

He caught her staring.

“What is it?” he asked, voice low, not teasing.

She stepped closer. Her fingers reached up, brushed along his jaw, then down his chest as she laid her hand over his heart.

“I need you tonight,” she whispered.

His breath caught. He stilled.

“I need to be close to you.”
“I need you to make love to me.”
“Please, Hassian.”

There was no coyness in her voice. No seductive angle to it. Just honesty—aching, bare truth. The request of someone standing on the edge of a vast unknown and needing something real to hold onto.

His eyes softened. He brought a hand to her face, fingers sliding through her hair, palm cupping the back of her neck as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“You have me,” he said quietly. “All of me.”

He pulled her against him, arms wrapping around her waist. Her head tucked under his chin, and for a moment they just breathed together, their chests rising and falling in sync.

Then, slowly, he tilted her face up. Kissed her. Not with urgency, but depth. His mouth moved over hers like he was memorizing her all over again. He kissed her until her fingers curled in the hem of his shirt, and even then he didn’t rush—just let the moment unfold, like petals opening to moonlight.

He lifted her gently, carrying her the short distance to the bed. When he laid her down, it wasn’t with hunger—it was reverence. As if she were something sacred.

He undressed her piece by piece, kissing every newly bared inch of skin. Her shoulder. The dip of her collarbone. The inside of her wrist.

She touched him in return, tracing the curve of his spine, the line of the scar across his shoulder. Familiar terrain. Her home.

They made love slowly, deeply, with the kind of care that didn’t ask questions or make promises. Just a shared truth, spoken in the language of breath and skin and whispered names.

Later, tangled in each other beneath the stars, he brushed a kiss to her temple.

“You’re here,” he murmured.

She nodded, pressing closer to him.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll make sure of that”

And for a while, they simply stayed like that. Holding tight. Holding on.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t a shield from the unknown.

It was the strength to face it.