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And it might just be the first time I sleep without dreaming of Branwen.

And like the utter fucking embarrassment I am, I start crying again. Not the pretty kind, not the cinematic single tear rolling down a chiseled cheek. No. This is the kind of crying that slips out before I even realize it’s happening. The kind that burns its way up from the inside out, like whatever Branwen carved into me hasn’t healed, just scabbed—and Luna’s kindness, her softness, herbeing here—rips that scab off in one clean pull.

I turn my face into the pillow, pressing hard like I can smother the sound, like I can trap the hurt there and pretend I’m still the Sin of Lust, not whatever cracked thing she’s cradling. My shoulders shake, and it pisses me off even more. I hate this. I hate that she’s seeing it.

And then she does the worst possible thing.

She holds me.

Not like I’m fragile. Not like I’m broken. Just like she knows. Like this is a place she’s been before. She doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around me from behind and tucks her chin against my spine like I’m something worth steadying.

And I laugh.

It’s not graceful. It’s wet and raw and hiccupped into the pillow, and I fuckinglaugh.Because this? This is ridiculous. This entire scene is some twisted version of a therapy ad. Caspian Vale—naked, emotionally unhinged, crying into a pillow while his lover holds him like a broken violin and hums under her breath like she’s tuning me back to life.

“Shut up,” I mumble, still laughing, still sniffling like a child.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says gently, though her voice is warm with a smile. “But you’re really selling the whole vulnerable sex god thing right now.”

I roll over just enough to see her, her eyes soft, her cheeks smudged with sleep, and her stupid little smirk that makes everything worse and better at the same time. I wipe my face with the sheet, like that can erase the moment, like I haven’t already dissolved everything I pretend to be in front of her.

“You’re going to use this against me, aren’t you?” I mutter.

“Oh, absolutely. This is blackmail gold. Expect memes.”

I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “I fucking hate you.”

“Liar.”

And she’s right. Gods, she’s right.

Because I’ve never loved anyone who didn’t ruin me. But Luna? She ruins me soft. Quiet. With patience and humor and hands that don’t flinch. And maybe—maybe I can survive that kind of ruin. Maybe I want to.

Luna

Silas leans in, one knee on the couch and his tongue poking out the side of his mouth like this is surgery and not eyeliner.

“Stop blinking, baby,” he mutters, dragging the pencil across my lash line. “You keep twitching like I’m about to stab your eye out. Do you not trust me?”

“I’ve seen you try to make toast,” I say dryly. “I don’t trust you with a toaster, Silas.”

He gasps like I’ve betrayed him, pulling back just enough to clutch his chest in theatrical horror. “You wound me. Emotionally. Spiritually. Sexually.”

“You’re not touching me sexually if you give me raccoon eyes,” I deadpan.

That gets his focus back. He squints, tilts my chin with a finger, and resumes his work like he's Michelangelo and my face is the Sistine Chapel. Which is terrifying, because Michelangelo never had ADHD and glitter eyeliner in the same toolkit.

Somewhere across the room, Elias groans. “Why are we doing glam before a break-in? Is this aheistor a fuckingphotoshoot?”

“Why can’t it be both?” Silas tosses over his shoulder. “Luna deserves to look criminally hot.”

I snort, and Elias mutters something about needing a sedative. Probably for himself. Or Silas. Or me.

Ambrose isn’t here yet, which is fine. I don’t need his permission for this. I don’t need anyone’s. He made the suggestion, but it’smydecision to follow it. Headmaster Blackwell left this place locked and rotting while the rest of the supernatural world unraveled. If he thinks I’m going to wait around like a docile binder while they puppet the strings behind the scenes—well. He really hasn't been paying attention.

Silas taps my cheek twice. “Done,” he announces, sitting back like he’s proud of himself.

I glance at my reflection in the cracked mirror near the window. It's… dramatic. Smudged black wings pulled out like they could slice if I blink too hard, shimmer caught in the corners, making me look half-dead, half-divine.