“Stop,” he interrupts softly. “Don’t do that. Not with me.”
“Do what?” I keep the smile fixed in place even as it threatens to shatter.
“Pretend.”
One word. That’s all it takes, and it lodges beneath my ribs and begins to twist.
His eyes hold mine, midnight blue; filled with a patience that makes me want to scream. Because he’s looking at me the way he used to.
“I’m not pretending. I’m just tired.”
Rowe doesn’t push. He watches me for a moment longer, then nods once.
“My place isn’t far,” he says finally, gesturing toward the path. The trees overhead bend together, their limbs woven into a canopy that shelters the forest floor. “You can sleep there tonight.”
Rowe’s home rises fromthe twilight with the quiet certainty of something the forest trusts. It nestles against the curve of an ancient hill, windows aglow with softened moonlight. There are no gilded gates or looming towers here, only vines that wind protectively across stone walls, their blossoms folding inward as if exhaling with the dusk.
I hesitate at the door, heart pounding. The last threshold I crossed led to silk-draped chains. But Rowe simply unlocks it and walks inside. No wards, no security. In a city where doorways conceal danger and entrances demand proof of value, this simplicity leaves me disarmed. He’s built something rare—shelter without suspicion, safety grounded in choice rather than control.
Rowe moves with the unbothered ease of someone who belongs here, but I linger behind, uneasy, reluctant to disturb something that feels so intact. When the door shuts, the sound catches me off guard, but the air that greets me is unmistakably his. Dried herbs drape overhead in fragrant clusters: rosemary, lavender, and others I can’t name but remember from all those nights we spent studying healing techniques.
Their familiar sweetness makes my eyes burn. Time may have changed me, hardened me, but this place is exactly how I always imagined Rowe’s home would be.
His space feels honest. Books crowd every surface, dog-eared and marked with pressed flora, scribbled diagrams, and ink-smudged thoughts. Half-empty teacups tell stories of late nights spent reading. Drawings of creatures cover the walls, each one captured with such care and detail they seem about to leap from the paper, testament to the gentle soul I once knew so well. No calculated displays of wealth, no perfectly arranged vignettes meant to impress. A home, lived in and loved. Just . . . Rowe.
“The washroom’s through there,” he says quietly, searching through a wooden chest. There’s tension in his shoulders, restrained but unmistakable. “I’ll find something clean for you.”
I make it to the bathroom before my composure crumples, and my hands tremble so violently I can barely twist the faucet. The reflection in the mirror looks haunted: shadows under eyes too hollow, features tight with exhaustion and grief. This is the visage of someone who died and shouldn’t have survived.
I clutch the sink until my knuckles pale, battling the cold grip of panic climbing my throat. Focus. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. I force myself to inventory the room: rows of labeled salves, creature-safe soaps sorted by size, a diagram on how to treat Teacup Dragon burns pinned beside the mirror. Every detail is deliberate, gentle. Everything here belongs to him. The steadiness in each choice becomes my anchor.
The hot water steadies me, but only at the surface, and my ribs ache from restraint. I press my forehead against the cool tiles, trying to ground myself in the sensation. But even surrounded by calm, I can’t escape the hollow throb of realization. Everything I believed about myself has splintered, and every truth has teeth.
When I return, I’m wrapped in one of Rowe’s old shirts. The sleeves fall past my hands, and the fabric is steeped in his scent of pine, ozone, and rain-soaked earth. I clench the cloth to hide theshake I can’t quite control. He’s left a pair of sleep pants too, oversized and uncooperative, the waistband cinched andstillpooling at my ankles.
Rowe’s across the room, turning the couch into a makeshift bed with too-careful hands. His shoulders are stiff as he arranges the pillows. When he hears me, he turns, his eyes lingering on me for a beat too long before dropping again. Something unspoken flickers there; gone before I can name it.
Heat gathers at my throat as I adjust the hem of the shirt, searching for something to do with my restless hands. This quiet domesticity unsettles me. It’s more intimate and vulnerable than the rooftop nights we shared when the world still made sense. We were just children then.
Now we aren’t.
“I probably look ridiculous,” I murmur, breaking the silence that’s thickened between us. The oversized shirt slides off one shoulder and I tug it back hastily, as if modesty might shield me from falling apart.
“You look—” He clears his throat and focuses instead on smoothing the quilt. “There’s tea if you want some. Mint and moonflower. Helps with sleep.” He gestures toward the corner without meeting my eyes.
I cross the room barefoot, the wooden floor cool beneath me. The fabric brushes against my skin with every step, his scent lingering in the fibers, impossible to ignore.
“You’re not sleeping there,” I say, watching as he tries to make the couch accommodate his six-foot-three frame. At five-seven, I could fold into it easily enough, but he’s already adjusting cushions like it might help. I’ve seen him stiff and sore after nights in the Academy library. This won’t be any better.
“I am,” he replies, already pulling out extra blankets from a nearby chest. “You’re taking my room. Don’t argue, you look like you haven’t slept in days.”
Instead of moving, I sink onto the couch and draw my knees beneath me. The sleeve slides again, but this time, I don’t bother fixing it. “Bold of you to think I’ll listen just because you said so.”
A faint curve tugs at his lips as he settles on the opposite end of the couch, putting space between us like a line neither of us knows how to cross. “Bold of you to assume I won’t simply carry you to bed if you fall asleep out here.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” The thought of Dom surges up, a reflexive ache, and I dig my nails into my palm, forcing the pain to tether me.
“Try me,” Rowe says, his voice too soft to challenge and too firm to dismiss.
