“I came to apologize.”
She stopped. Looked at him.
“You were right.” He moved closer, slowly, giving her room to stop him. “I offered to sacrifice myself like it was simple. Like the cost didn’t matter. Like the years I’d lose with you were just… numbers.”
“Aren’t they? To someone who’s lived six thousand years?”
“No.” He sat beside her on the ledge. Close, but not touching. “That’s what I need you to understand. A century isn’t nothing to me. It’s everything. Because every day of it would be a day without you.”
The wind cut between them. Ava waited.
“I’ve lived six thousand years,” Victor said slowly. “Everything I’ve ever cared about has ended. People die. Empires fall. Connections fade until they’re just… memories of memories. You learn to hold things loosely. You don’t let yourself believe anything is permanent, because permanence is a lie mortals tell themselves.”
“So you offered yourself to Marchosias because you don’t believe we’ll last anyway.”
“No.” He finally looked at her, and his eyes were wet. “I offered myself because I’m terrified we will.”
The words hung in the cold air between them.
“I’m terrified,” he continued, “that I’ll have you for sixty years and then lose you. That the grief will be worse than anything I’ve survived in six thousand years. Part of me thought: if I leave first, if I choose the ending, maybe it won’t hurt as much.”
“That’s…”
“Incredibly fucked up. I know.” A ghost of a smile. “I’m a six-thousand-year-old demon with intimacy issues. Not exactly a surprise.”
Ava didn’t smile back. Not yet. But something in her chest loosened.
“I need to know this is real,” she said. “Not obligation. Not the bond forcing your hand. Not protective instinct you can’t control.” She met his eyes. “I need to know you actually want to be here. With me. Even when it’s terrifying. Even when your brain tells you to run.”
He reached for her hand. She let him take it.
“When I was in Prague,” he said slowly, “after Celeste died, I swore I’d never let anyone that close again. A century of perfect isolation. I was good at it. Untouchable. Safe.” His thumb traced circles on her palm. “And then you walked into my elevator with your coffee and your student loans and your absolute refusalto be intimidated, and I felt something I thought I’d killed centuries ago.”
“What?”
“Hope.” He brought her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “Terrifying, irrational hope that maybe this time would be different. That maybe you would be different.”
“I’m not different. I’m just…”
“You’re…” His voice broke. He stopped. Started again. “Three weeks ago you were worried about student loans. Now you’re invoking blood magic in your parents’ kitchen and telling a six-thousand-year-old demon he’s not allowed to martyr himself.”
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s…” He shook his head. “I don’t have a word for what it is. I just know I don’t want to miss any of it.”
Her breath caught, and the knot behind her sternum loosened by a fraction.
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll stop trying to leave first. That you’ll fight for this, for us, even when it’s terrifying. Even when your six-thousand-year-old brain tells you to run.”
“I promise.” His eyes held hers. “No noble sacrifices. No choosing the ending early. We fight together. We stay together. However long we have.”
“Both of us,” she repeated.
This time when she kissed him, it was slow. His hands came up to cup her face, careful of the brand still burning on his palm.
