Silence stretches between us, but it’s soft now. Comforting. A blanket woven of shared understanding and worn-out fears.
My eyelids start to droop. The bond thrums slower now, syncing with my slowing breathing.
Then—soft, almost hesitant—”Amara?”
“Hmm?” I murmur sleepily.
“You’re falling asleep.”
“I’m not,” I protest, already fading.
“You are.”
“Okay, you can tell me more in the morning . . . ” I murmur.
A pause. Then—a quiet exhale against my hair, warm. Soft.
“Alright. Get some sleep,” he whispers.
His lips brush the top of my head—barely a kiss, barely a breath. My eyes flutter closed, heavy with the pull of sleep and safety.
“I will if you do,” I murmur.
He doesn’t answer. But his grip tightens. And I know tonight, he won’t let go.
And neither will I.
THANE
I wake before her.
The room is still dark, the early morning light just beginning to touch the edges of the stone walls. A faint breeze stirs the warm air, and somewhere outside the open window, I hear the first birds beginning to sing, soft, tentative notes breaking the hush of night.
And Amara—gods, Amara.My beautiful Amara.
She’s still wrapped in my arms. Her hair, dark as a raven’s wing, spills across my chest, soft and silken. My fingers drift through the strands absently.
I breathe her in.
Wildflowers warmed by the sun and the faint, clean scent of summer air clings to her skin. Alive. Untamed. Comforting in a way nothing else has ever been.
Gods,I don’t want to move.
Because here, in the quiet, in the fragile space between dreams and waking—I finally feelhome.
But I know—fuck,I know—this can’t last. Not for me.
Not for us.
The words leave me before I can stop them, barely a whisper in the stillness:
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me, do you?”
But I don’t stop. Because she cannot hear me. Because this is the only way I can say it right now.
“I won’t run again,” I promise.
And even though she’s asleep . . . the bond hums.
