Lyra followed Hassian into the house with quiet steps, the last light of day catching in her lashes. She still looked a little raw around the edges, cheeks washed pink from scrubbing her tears away, but her eyes were clearer now. Focused. Herself again.

Hassian went straight for the kitchen, lifting the towel off the vegetable bowl like he expected a trap. “Well,” he muttered, eyeing the damage. “Potatoes. And carrots. You were on a mission.”

She gave a weak laugh behind him. “It was either chop or scream.”

He shot a look over his shoulder, half a smile forming. “Glad you picked the less noisy one.”

Lyra made her way to the table while he began pulling down the spice jars, and that’s when she saw it—left just where he’d forgotten it in his haste to walk her around.

A sketch. An arch. Done in bold, careful pencil strokes with just enough detail to bring it to life. It was rustic, just like him—thick branches wound together like they were hugging, flowers trailing up the sides, fluttering ribbons at the corners. Real. Beautiful. Tangled and imperfect and alive.

Her breath caught. “You drew this?”

He looked over his shoulder again, setting a pan on the stove. “Yeah. Started it this morning, finished it out in the Grove while Saraya and Lexi were plotting.”

Her throat tightened, tears threatening again—not from stress this time, but from the sheer kindness of it.

“It’s beautiful, Hassian.”

“It’s rough,” he admitted, eyes dropping as he sprinkled seasoning into the pan. “But I’ve already got the wood drying. Simon and Rex are coming out next week to start building it, if you like it.”

She stared at it like she could already see the sun hitting the ribbons.

“I love it,” she whispered.

His shoulders relaxed. Something in him—quiet, but deep—let go.

She picked up the sketch again. “How was it with Saraya and Lexi?”

“Fine,” he said, brow raised. “They’ve planned the total destruction of the Grove.”

She giggled—an actual giggle—and he nearly burned the chops from being too damn smitten to flip them. “Pretty sure the Grove will survive.”

“Baby,” he turned to face her fully, deadpan serious, “they laid out a dance floor. A dance floor. In the Grove.”

“Oh no,” she gasped in mock horror. “Not dancing.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Well, you do now, hunter,” she said sweetly. “At least a slow dance. We have to have a first dance.”

He huffed, flipping the meat with dramatic indignation. “That’s fair, I guess… but you’ll have to teach me.”

“I will,” she promised. “And you’ll be so good at it you’ll hate how much you enjoy it.”

He grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “doubt that,” but the corner of his mouth twitched, and the kitchen filled with that warm quiet only shared love could build.

The scent of chappa chops seared into the air, the carrots caramelizing just enough in the honey. Outside, the night crept in soft and blue. Inside, Hassian moved easily between stove and table, checking the pan, setting plates, reaching behind her for the salt.

Like it had always been

In the Conservatory Bed

The room was dark except for the silvery-blue shimmer of starlight sneaking in through the high glass windows. Outside, the world was still. Inside, their world was wrapped up in blankets and the soft hum of breath against skin.

Lyra lay curled against Hassian, her head tucked beneath his chin, one leg tangled over his, her ear resting where his heart beat steady and low. His arms were wrapped around her like instinct—like he’d been built for this one purpose: keeping her safe.

But sleep wouldn’t come.
Not yet.

Her mind kept circling, replaying the sharpness of earlier. The look in Tamala’s eyes. The cold edge in her voice. The way it had cut something open in her without warning. The grief. The fear. The unfairness of it all. She hated that she still cared what Tamala thought—hated that it still got to her.

But even more than that, she hated how it had shaken her today. Made her feel small. Like a little girl.

No.
Not anymore.

She nestled closer, the feel of Hassian’s heartbeat grounding her. This was hers now. He was hers. No matter what came next, no matter who tried to pull her down or twist the story—he had chosen her. He slept in her bed, held her in the dark, made her laugh when she wanted to scream. He had changed his whole life to be hers. To build one with her.

He loved her. Lyra didn’t doubt that.

And she wasn’t about to let a ghost from his past steal her future.

“You’re smart,” she reminded herself, lips curling slightly against his chest. “Use that.”

Tamala could talk. Tamala would talk. But Lyra knew who she was now. She was the woman Hassian was going to marry. The one who’d walked through fire and didn’t come out alone. She didn’t have to prove anything. Not anymore.

She just had to keep moving forward. Keep showing up. Keep choosing this life. Choosing him.

And tonight, that meant letting it go. Just for now. Just enough to rest.

Her body softened. The weight of the day slipped off her shoulders like a cloak falling to the floor. She let her breath match his. Let her fingers curl lightly into the edge of his shirt.

His arms tightened around her in response, not quite waking—just knowing.

This was where she belonged.

Finally, finally… she slept.

Breakfast

Sunlight slanted through the small kitchen window, golden and warm, catching on the steam rising from two mismatched mugs. The smell of toasted bread filled the air like a challenge.

Hassian sat hunched over, shirtless, hair still damp from his morning rinse, glaring at a piece of toast like it had personally insulted his honor.

“This is dry,” he muttered, poking the toast with one finger. “Why do humans insist on burning bread and calling it food?”

Lyra grinned around her cup. “It’s not burned, it’s toasted. And it’s not all humans—it’s just breakfast.”

He narrowed his eyes at the toast. “Breakfast shouldn’t splinter when you bite it.”

She reached across the table and swiped the slice right off his plate. “Fine. More for me.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going to eat it,” he grumbled, but his lips twitched.

She tore off a corner and popped it into her mouth, chewing with exaggerated satisfaction. “Mmm. Delicious disappointment.”

He chuckled low in his throat and took a sip of tea, the warmth softening his features. Then his gaze flicked to her, studying.

“You feeling better today?” he asked quietly.

Lyra lowered her cup. “Yeah, I think so.”

“You looked like you were having another nightmare last night.” He kept his voice casual, but there was a furrow between his brows. “I didn’t wake you—it didn’t seem as bad as usual.”

Lyra paused, tilting her head, trying to remember—but the edges of the dream were already slipping away. “I don’t really remember,” she admitted. “Just… shadows, maybe.”

His hand came across the table to touch hers, thumb brushing along her knuckles. “Well, you’re safe now. Whatever it was.”

Before she could answer, there was a knock at the front door—sharp, quick, and insistent.

They both turned toward the sound.

Hassian sighed, already rising. “If that’s Subira again, I swear to every star in the sky—”