Malrik moves into my peripheral vision, silver eyes tracking my hands as I fumble with a buckle that suddenly has too many moving parts.
“Finn.”
Just my name. That’s all. But the way he says it—quiet, certain, like he sees straight through the armor I’ve been wearing since I learned to talk—does something to me.
I drop the buckle. Stare at my hands. They’re shaking.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” I say quietly. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to feel.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Raw and honest. Dangerous.
Malrik steps closer. Silent. Solid. Like he’s drawn to me as much as I am him.
Then his hand settles on my wrist, warm and steady.
My chaos magic flickers once, then quiets.
“You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel,” Malrik says. “That’s not negotiable.”
I laugh. It comes out broken. “Pretty sure it is.”
“It’s not.”
I finally look up at him. He’s close enough I can see the way shadows cling to his edges, the silver of his eyes reflecting firelight. Close enough to notice he’s not looking at me like I’m a problem to solve.
He’s looking at me like I matter.
My breath stumbles.
“Mal—”
“Whatever you need, Finn.” His voice is low, certain. “I’m here too.”
The words hit harder than they should.
I don’t decide to lean in. My body just does it—gravity pulling me forward like I’ve been fighting this current for too long and finally stopped resisting.
Malrik meets me halfway.
The kiss is soft at first. Tentative. Like he’s giving me room to pull back if I need to.
I don’t pull back.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw—warm, steady, grounding—and I feel my chaos magic flicker once before settling into something I haven’t felt in days. Weeks, maybe.
Quiet.
Not gone. Just… calm.
He tastes like smoke and certainty, and when he tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, I make a sound I don’t mean to make—something between relief and desperation.
His other hand finds my hip, anchoring me like he knows I’m about to float away if he doesn’t hold on.
And I let him.
I let myself sink into this—into the warmth of his mouth, the steadiness of his hands, the way his shadows curl around us like they’re giving us privacy even though we’re in the middle of camp.
My hands find his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my palm, and I focus on that—the rhythm of it, the proof that he’s here, that this is real, that I’m not imagining the way he’s holding me like I matter.
