The Grove had never looked better. Hammered benches, hand-cut tables, and rope-bound flowers along the grass-drawn dance floor gave it the air of a dream rather than sweat, splinters, and sunburns. Lanterns swayed gently overhead, catching the last of the twilight. Even the old tent had been repurposed along the tree line, cleaned and lined with soft linens—Lyra’s makeshift dressing room, though she’d probably just change behind a tree if it came to it.

The weekend’s energy lingered in the air, trailing behind the departing friends like the scent of campfire on clothes. Lyra was sore, barefoot, and still smiling.

Hassian stood beside the wedding arch, hands on his hips, tilting his head as though expecting it to sprout legs and walk away.

“Still standing,” Lyra said softly, coming up behind him. “You already checked it twice.”

“Wind shifts,” he said, deadpan. “Better safe than rebuilding mid-vows.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, grinning. “It’s perfect. We’re perfect.”

He covered her hands with his, eyes on the arch. “It’s strange, isn’t it? That this is real. Ours.”

“I keep thinking the same thing,” she said, leaning against his back. “Like if I blink too long, I’ll wake up back in my tent with nothing and no one, like I started out here.”

He shook his head. “There’s no going back, baby. You’ve come too far.”

Lyra smiled softly. “And I wouldn’t change a minute. So… we still have decisions to make. I have Saraya and Lexi standing with me. Have you decided on your side?”

“Default would be Chayne,” he said, “but he’s officiating.”

She nodded. “Right. So?”

He turned to face her, “I was thinking Simon and Rex. Feels right.”

“It does.”

A pause. Then quieter: “But….would it be too weird if I asked my mother?”

Lyra blinked, then looked up at him. “Sifuu?”

He nodded, gaze forward but soft. “She’s been part of every step. Helped with the pins, made our rings, offered encouragement… she’s always been there, even when I didn’t make it easy.”

Lyra smiled gently. “And she cheered me on when she realized I was trying to corrupt her baby boy. Hassian. It’s our wedding—we can do what we want. Your mother is an amazing choice.”

He turned toward her, brushing her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Then it’s settled.”

They lingered in that moment, caught between the last light of day and the beginning of something bigger.

Lyra glanced toward the cascading water, mist curling around the base of the arch. “So… is the inspection officially over now, or are we walking it down the aisle again?”

Hassian followed her gaze, his expression shifting — quieter, warmer. “I think everything is secure.”

“And yet,” she mused, “you’re still standing here.”

“Mm. I find it hard to leave a view worth appreciating.” His eyes flicked back to her, meaning clear.

Her lips curved. “Flattery won’t distract me.”

“It’s not meant to,” he said softly, offering his hand. “This is.”

He guided her only a step or two closer, where the air cooled and the mist kissed their skin, the steady roar of water wrapping around them like a secret.

The Waterfall

Sunset burned low behind the trees, casting the Grove in deep amber and long shadows. The air clung to their skin, warm and damp, every step feeling slow and charged.

Lyra walked barefoot beside Hassian, his hand gripping hers with quiet insistence. The crunch of moss beneath their feet gave way to the rush of their waterfall. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“You remember what I said once about this place?”

He turned, curious. “You say a lot of things.”

“Don’t play dumb. I said I wanted to have you right here. Against the stone. Water pouring over us.”

Hassian stopped. Just stopped. His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped toward her, until she had to tilt her chin up to meet him.

“I remember,” he murmured, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve thought about it more than I probably should.”

Her breath hitched. “Then let’s stop thinking.”

“Don’t tempt me unless you mean it,” he murmured — not teasing. Warning.

She backed toward the falls, unbuttoning her top with one hand, letting it slip from her shoulders in a wet rustle. Her shorts followed, pooling at her feet, and she stepped into the cascade, water skimming the curve of her shoulders, tracing the slope of her spine.

He watched her like a man starved. She means it he thought.

Boots pulled off, shirt over his head, belt undone with one hard tug—he moved like he couldn’t wait another second. When he joined her under the falls, the cold water only sharpened the heat between them. His hands found her waist, fingers splaying wide, tracing her like a worshipper might revere a sacred shape—but softer, hungrier, claiming her with a tenderness that made the water itself shiver.

Lyra met him halfway, seizing his face and kissing him hard, mouths clashing, breaths colliding, bodies pressed chest to chest. He tilted her against the slick stone, letting her legs wrap instinctively around his waist, anchoring them together.

“You sure?” he rasped against her throat, voice rough, tethered to restraint.

“I’ve never been more sure,” she breathed, smiling through the water streaming down her face.

That was all he needed. His hands steadying her, he entered her, letting their rhythm take over.

Her gasp split the roar of the falls, fingers tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her fully to the stone, lifting, driving with the power in his hips and thighs. The water thundered around them, but all she could hear was the sharp cadence of their shared moans, the bite of her name against his tongue.

He moved with purpose—devouring every curve with quiet awe, claiming her with a fervor that made the water pulse around them. She clung, pulled him closer, guiding, urging, letting the rhythm climb, spiral, crash over them both. The friction of skin, the sting of cold, the blaze of his body against hers—it was dizzying, intoxicating.

She came first, a rush fierce and sudden, clinging to him with a cry swallowed almost entirely by the falls. He followed, groaning low, burying his face into her neck as though he could hold her there forever.

Afterward, they remained pressed together, shivering under the spray, breathing each other in, the world narrowed to the tremor of limbs, the heat of flesh, and the quiet roar of water.

His hands lingered at her hips, holding, grounding, afraid to let go. Forehead to hers, hair damp and tangled, he whispered:
“You’re so amazing , baby."

Lyra smiled, lips brushing his collarbone. “And you always take care of me in the best way.” Above them, stars blinked awake through the ferns, silent witnesses to a tether forged of fire, water, and flesh—a promise unspoken, eternal in its quiet gravity.

They stepped out from beneath the waterfall, the cool forest air wrapping around their heated skin, steam rising like mist from their bodies. The hush of the Grove returned—birds stirring in the canopy, water slipping over stone, leaves whispering in a lazy breeze.

Hassian retrieved his shirt from the shore, shaking it free of grass, but instead of dressing immediately, he began drying her with it. Inspecting every inch of her body.

“I hope I didn’t leave any marks,” he said quietly, voice low, almost hesitant. “I’d feel terrible if I did.”

Lyra tilted her head to meet his gaze, soft warmth in her expression. “I won’t bruise. And if I do… I don’t mind.”

He paused, palm resting lightly against her shoulder blade, brows knitting just enough to show the depth of feeling beneath his usual restraint.

“I felt awful before,” he admitted. “Seeing the bruises I left on your thighs… didn’t sit right with me.”

She smiled, not to dismiss him, but to reassure him. “They didn’t feel awful to me.”

Hassian’s gaze lifted, searching hers with an intensity that made her stomach flutter.

“Love wounds,” she whispered.

A beat passed, the words landing somewhere deep, heavy and tender.

He finally began helping her dress, careful and deliberate, each motion gentle, reverent in its own way—full of awe and claim, a quiet devotion that went beyond touch. When she handed him his own shirt, she moved along him the same way, smoothing the damp fabric against his skin.

Once they were clothed, they lingered in each other’s space. Hassian pulled her into his arms, holding her as naturally as drawing breath. She pressed her cheek to his chest, listening to the steady beat beneath her ear.

“Another first in the Grove,” she murmured.

He let out a quiet rumble of amusement, voice low and tender. “Should’ve happened sooner,” he said, letting his lips brush the crown of her head.

A pause settled between them, soft and intimate, the world narrowing to the warmth of shared skin, the faint scent of pine and water, and the echo of their own breaths.

Then he spoke again, voice barely above the whisper of leaves:
“You’re mine.”

No demand, no plea—just the weight of truth, as steady and inescapable as the current of the waterfall they’d just left behind.

Lyra tightened her arms around him, eyes closed, letting the certainty of his words sink into her bones. “Always, hunter,” she said, soft, sure, complete.

They stayed that way, suspended in the hush of the Grove, letting the night stretch around them like a cloak, each heartbeat a quiet promise. Stars winked above, their light gentle and eternal.

Hassian pressed his forehead to hers, a low rumble vibrating through his chest. “Keep this with us,” he murmured.

“Forever,” Lyra replied, and in that one word, everything unspoken, everything precious, shimmered between them like firelight on water.