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Then, because I know he’ll try to retreat into himself otherwise, I roll my eyes and say, “Unless you’ve got some snacks hidden somewhere. In that case, maybe we can negotiate.”

He lets out a soft, huffed laugh. It’s not real humor—not fully—but it’s a crack in the stone he’s carved around himself, and I’ll take it.

“You come crawling into my bed,” he says, voice teasing but brittle at the edges, “and you don’t even want me for my body. Devastating.”

“You’re a pretty pillow, Caspian. That’s your function now. Deal with it.”

His arm curls tighter around me, and for once, it’s not about pulling me into anything more. It’s about anchoring. About breathing together in the dark and pretending—for just a little longer—that the world outside the bed doesn’t exist.

“Do you ever think it could be… different?” he asks suddenly, quietly.

My throat tightens. I don’t ask what he means. We both know.

“I think it already is,” I whisper.

And he doesn’t say anything else.

But he doesn’t ask again either.

“We should get back at Silas.”

His snort rumbles beneath me, soft and sharp all at once, like he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction of amusing him but can’t help it either. It’s the first real sound of life I’ve felt from him in days. Not a tease, not a flirt, not a flash of performative lust—just Caspian, raw and bruised and still there underneath.

He shifts slightly, propping his chin against the top of my head like he’s resigned to whatever chaos I’m about to bring. “Whatexactly do you have in mind, Little Sin?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep and something darker, something sadder, but warmer now. Curious.

I grin against his chest, wicked and unapologetic. “Oh, nothing violent. Yet. I was thinking something subtle. Psychological warfare.”

“That sounds disturbingly erotic when you say it like that.” He hums. “Do go on.”

I pull back just enough to see his face. There’s color there again. Not much, but it’s better than the blankness from earlier. His mouth is curled—not quite into a smirk, but it’s trying. I hook my leg over his and lay half on top of him now, watching his eyes flick to my mouth and then guiltily away.

“Silas is due,” I say. “Due for one of his own theatrics flipped back at him. I thought maybe… we enchant one of his hoodies to whisper his darkest secrets to whoever wears it.”

Caspian blinks at me. Then laughs. Not a soft chuckle—an honest, sharp sound that makes my chest ache in the best way.

“Whispers his secrets?” he says, lifting an eyebrow. “Likewhat? That he once kissed a mirror thinking it was someone else? Or that he has a whole folder in his spellbook labeledLuna’s Hair: Volumes 1 through 6?”

“You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

He grins now, full and bright. My Caspian. The real one. The one I haven’t seen since Branwen twisted him apart and left the seams raw.

“And what happens when the hoodie starts spilling secrets Silas didn’t even know he had?” he asks, voice lowering. “You know he’s got skeletons. Not in the closet—on the roof.”

I shrug, unrepentant. “Then maybe he’ll think twice before finishing summoning circles witheyelinerand dragging sexy clones of me into existence.”

Caspian quiets again, but this time it’s thoughtful. He’s looking at me like I’m something worth being pulled into. Something worth coming back for.

He kisses me once. Just once. It’s not hungry. It’s not performative.

It’s grounding.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s break his mind.”

And we will. But first, I’m going to stay right here, listening to the rhythm of his breath, memorizing the shape of this moment. Because we don’t get many quiet nights. And I want to remember what it feels like when he laughs like that—like he’s still whole.

Silas