It was supposed to bemymoment—one of the few times I felt something like hope inside that gods-cursed Maze. But instead of raw survival, they made it into a damsel fantasy. Kane-DeSoto-as-Gyon dragged me out of fake rubble like he was hero-lifting a prize trophy. And the worst part?
They wanted a kiss.
Right there. Mid-fake-smoke and busted foam piping, while I’m in a synthetic “burn” suit and covered in theatrical grime.
I told them no. Firmly.
They filmed it anyway with a body double and a creative camera angle.
I slam my trailer door behind me so hard the handle rattles. My lungs are burning, but I can’t seem to breathe. The tiny space feels too small, the air too thick. I strip off the costume in rough tugs, let it puddle at my feet, then crawl onto the little fold-out couch in the corner and pull my knees to my chest.
And I cry.
Not loud.
Just tight and silent, my face buried in my arms, my whole body shaking like it’s trying to eject the emotion by force.
Because it’s not the scene. Not really. It’s what itremindsme of.
The real version.
The heat of Gyon’s arm under mine as he pulled me out of that collapsed tunnel. The grunt he made as a beam scraped hisribs. The way he shielded me with his body even though he was bleeding, growling, panting.
“Stay behind me,” he’d ordered.
“Not a chance,” I’d snapped back, just before we both took a dive and landed in a pile of twisted metal.
The memory cuts so sharp I can’t tell what’s real anymore. What’s fantasy. What’s leftover trauma and what’s longing wearing a stolen face.
I eventually cry myself out. My skin’s tacky with sweat. My breath comes in shallow gasps. The hum of the set generators outside the trailer window pulses like a heartbeat too loud.
I fall asleep like that.
And that’s when I dream.
Not the usual fever-chatter dreams. Not the ones where Pepper's inducer fails in public or the press finds out or Gyon’s body is dragged out of rubble with a tag on his toe.
This one feels different.
Lucid. Heavy. Like memory wrapped in silk.
He’s standing at the edge of my field of vision when it starts—backlit by a violet sky I know I’ve never seen. His silhouette is all power, coiled and ready. His horns glow faint blue at the tips, like smoldering coals. And when he turns to face me, I forget how to breathe.
“Liora,” he says.
Just that.
My name.
Like a command. Like a secret. Like I’m the only thing that’s ever mattered.
I run to him—of course I do—and the second I reach him, his arms wrap around me, iron and warmth and thatscentI’d almost forgotten: ozone and fire, metallic and primal, like the air before a storm.
His mouth finds mine before I can think. His kiss is brutal, hungry, possessive, and I melt into it like it’s home.
“You’ve been hiding from me,” he growls against my lips.
“You left,” I snap back, even though it’s a dream and we both know it.
