Lonari’s eyes darken. “Let them come.”
I shake my head, laughing softly. “You’re insane.”
He steps closer, and his voice drops. “So are you.”
Then he kisses me.
Not frantic.
Not desperate.
Just… sure.
A kiss that says: we survived. We’re still here. We’re choosing this in the open.
The wind whips around us, tugging at hair and coats, and I press into him like the rooftop is the only stable thing in the universe.
When we break apart, my forehead rests against his for a moment.
I whisper, “I can’t believe you did that up here.”
Lonari’s mouth curves faintly. “Why?”
“Because you’re allergic to romance,” I mutter.
He huffs. “This isn’t romance. This is strategy.”
I laugh, and it’s warm and real. “God. You proposed like a warlord signing a treaty.”
Lonari’s voice is dry. “It worked.”
“It did,” I admit, and my chest hurts with how much I mean it.
Later,in a private suite beneath the Nun’s glittering chaos, the world finally quiets enough for my body to remember it exists.
The room smells like clean linen and citrus and the faint smoke that clings to Lonari no matter how often he showers. The lights are low. The security locks are engaged, not because we’re paranoid—though we are—but because this city has taught us that safety is built, not wished for.
Lonari stands near the window for a moment, watching the skyline like it might change shape while he blinks.
Then he turns to me, and the intensity in his gaze is different now—softer, but no less sharp.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
I glance down and realize my hands are trembling slightly.
“Adrenaline hangover,” I mutter. “I’m fine.”
Lonari’s eyes narrow. “Don’t.”
I roll my eyes, but there’s no fight in it. “Okay. I’m not fine.”
He crosses the room in two steps and cups my face like he’s grounding me to something real.
“You don’t have to be fine,” he says.
I swallow, feeling the ring against my skin. Feeling the weight of yes.
We choose intimacy like we chose it last time—not as escape, but as closure. As relief. As commitment with skin and breath.
