20
LIAM
The observatory is nearly empty at this hour, save for the faint hum of starlight threading its way through the latticed ceiling. Theo and I slip in through the side entrance, his idea, though he’d deny it if I said so aloud, and climb up to the ledge that overlooks the training grounds below. The stone is cool beneath us, polished by decades of students who sat here before, dangling their legs in the same rebellious fashion we are now.
Theo uncorks the bottle of fae ale he’d smuggled back from Anvaris, the liquid inside glowing faintly, shifting in color with every tilt. He hands it to me first, fingers brushing mine, delicate, lingering half a second longer than necessary. The contact sends a pulse through my chest that I pretend I don’t feel.
I take a long drink. The ale burns sweetly, fizzing with a warmth that spreads through my shoulders, loosening the tension Locke’s silence had carved into me hours before.
Locke said almost nothing when we told him about Myrindale.
Nothing when I told him Harper was shaken.
Nothing when I demanded to know what he knew about my father’s bloodline.
His eyes had carried an anger that wasn’t directed at me, but it made me feel as though every mistake we’d made was carved across my skin.
I drink again. Harder this time.
Theo shifts beside me, his legs swinging over the edge in a lazy rhythm. The starlight washes over him, illuminating the soft gold of his hair, the pale milky cast of his eyes. He holds his wand loosely in one hand, turning it so the light catches the silver filigree in the handle. His gaze, unfocused but intent, travels along its length as if he’s reading something in the vibration of the air.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing against the silence rather than breaking it.
“I talked enough for both of us tonight,” I mutter, leaning back on my hands. “Locke barely looked at me. And when he did…”
I exhale sharply, the air leaving me in an uneven rush. “I don’t know if he was angry at us or at himself.”
Theo doesn’t immediately respond. He draws in a slow breath, letting the night air settle in his lungs before he speaks.
“He’s worried,” Theo says softly. “And worried men say too little or too much. Locke is the former. Always has been.”
His tone is gentle enough that it settles something inside me, even as the rest of me remains knotted.
I glance over at him. He’s still studying the wand’s reflection, as though watching the stars through it. His sightless eyes catch the faint glow of the fae ale beside him, and something about the way the light paints his features tugs at me.
“You always know what to say,” I tell him before I can stop myself.
Theo lets out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if he hadn’t sounded so tired. “Not always. And rarely the right thing. But I’m trying.”
I shift slightly, and our shoulders brush, a soft contact, accidental. I don’t move away. Neither does he.
The warmth from the ale seeps deeper into my limbs, smoothing the sharp edges of the day. The stars above lookclose enough to touch, scattered across the sky like someone spilled silver dust and forgot to sweep it up. Theo tilts his head toward them, his expression softening the longer he sits there.
“I didn’t… thank you,” I say, voice quieter than intended. “For earlier. At Myrindale. You kept pace with us better than anyone could have expected. You knew exactly where to be.”
Theo’s lips curve, faint and fleeting. “You walk loudly,” he replies, nudging my boot with his. “You and Harper both. It’s easy to follow the two of you. You move with purpose.”
“And you?” I ask before I can swallow the words. “What do you move with?”
Theo is silent for a long moment. His wand rests across his lap, the starlight glinting off its pale grain. His fingers tap lightly against it, tracing patterns I can’t read.
“Hope,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Or something pretending to be hope.”
His confession slips into the night like a secret he didn’t mean to share.
I look at him, really look at him, and something shifts low in my chest. His face is turned toward the sky, but his body leans subtly toward mine. The distance we sat with earlier is gone, replaced by something far more delicate, far more dangerous. His sleeve brushes mine. His knee angles closer. His breath softens in rhythm with mine.
The fae ale catches the air again, glowing faintly in his hand before he passes it back to me. I take it, fingers brushing his in a slow, unhurried glide that neither of us mistakes for accident.
