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Luna rolls her eyes, amused, stepping closer until we’re nearly toe to toe. “You’re all creatures of need.”

“I’m patient,” I say softly, letting my gaze travel over her face. “But I’m no exception.”

She knows what I mean. Her smile falters—not out of discomfort, but something heavier. Something like understanding. The weight ofknowingwhat I want and not flinching from it. I don’t press her. I never have. I only offer her the truth, over and over again, until she decides to take it.

“Walk with me,” I say, holding out my hand—not to take hers, just to invite. To remind her that with me, there’s no pressure. Just choice.

She nods.

We leave the ivy-covered courtyard behind and follow the old path that winds toward the western edge of the Academy grounds. It’s wild here, less manicured, the forest creeping in like it wants to reclaim what stone tried to steal. I like it here. Nature doesn’t ask for permission—it justis. Relentless. Undeniable.

She walks beside me, not speaking, not needing to. The silence is rich, not empty. A pause between heartbeats. Every so often, I glance down at her—at the way her fingers twitch like she’s fighting the urge to reach for something. Maybe for me. Maybe not. But she doesn’t. And I don’t push.

“I missed this,” she finally says, her voice barely above the whisper of wind through the leaves. “Not the place, but… the normalcy. The quiet.”

I glance at her again, and this time, I do reach. My fingers brush her wrist, just enough to feel her pulse—alive and quick.“You don’t need quiet,” I murmur. “You needpeace.The kind that doesn’t beg you to shrink to fit it.”

She looks up at me, eyes luminous with something unreadable.

I don’t kiss her.

Not yet.

Instead, I offer her a ghost of a smile, then look back toward the trees ahead. “Come,” I say, voice low. “Let me show you where the world forgets to be cruel.”

The garden path winds like it remembers her too. The way she walked it months ago, head high and teeth bared like she was daring the world to try and chew her up. I remember every step she took that day. The stubborn lift of her chin. The bruises on her pride, not yet scabbed over. And how even then—when none of us knew her—I did.

So I ask her, quiet and easy, “Do you remember when you first arrived here?”

Luna tilts her head, curls still damp and sticking to her collarbones, and there’s a glint in her eye that already answers me. “Lucien tried to scare me off the first hour,” she says with a laugh that tugs at my ribs. “Riven too. I think I got a growl and a threat before I’d even unpacked.”

I smile because it’s true. It was chaos. All fire and poison and sharp edges. “And me?” I ask, though I already know what she’ll say. I ask because I want to hear her say it.

She stops walking and turns to face me, her voice softer now. “You were the first one who didn’t flinch. You looked at me like I wasn’t broken glass. Like I wasn’t dangerous.” Her fingers twitch at her sides, like she might reach for me but doesn’t. “You offered me kindness before anyone else thought I was worth the risk.”

There’s a silence after that—long, alive. Not awkward. Not hesitant. Just full.

Then she pulls something from her pocket. It’s wrapped in a square of dark cloth, folded carefully. Reverently. She presses it into my palm without ceremony, but the weight of it is undeniable. “I made you something,” she says, eyes lowered. “It’s not much. Just… I thought you might like it.”

I look down, slowly unwrapping the fabric. My fingers move slower than usual, reverent by instinct, not design. And when the cloth falls away, I see what she’s given me.

It’s a small, hand-bound book—stitched together with black thread. The cover is rough leather, burnished and worn, but the details… gods, the details. Her crest is branded into the corner, her magic etched faintly into the spine like a heartbeat. Inside, I know before I even open it, will be words.Herwords. Her thoughts. Her poems. Her nightmares. Maybe her dreams.

She doesn’t know what she’s done.

Shecan’tknow.

My breath halts in my throat as the blood in my veins slows, then roars. A gift. Freely given. Something of her—made forme. Unprompted. Unobligated. In my world, among my people, in the old rites I haven’t dared to whisper aloud in centuries, this is the final act. The closing note of a courtship already in motion.

She has no idea she’s answered the call.

I close the book gently, like it might vanish if I’m too careless with it. When I lift my gaze to hers, I don’t bother hiding what I feel. “You have no idea,” I say quietly, “what this means.”

She blinks, uncertain. “It’s just—”

“No.” I take a step toward her. “It’snotjust anything. You gave me something of yourself. Made by your hands. From your thoughts. Your time.” I pause, lowering my voice further. “Among my kind… we don’t offer gifts lightly. And we don’t accept them without meaning.”

Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.