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But Sorrow has always woken up alone, even after taking a lover, the number of which clocks in at a resounding five. Though only one stands out. And he’d never spent the night with her, never fallen asleep with her, because she hadn’t allowed it.

Regardless, someone is with her. That someone huffs and puffs close to her. That someone is moving beneath her.

That someone reeks of pretension.

Sorrow’s body slumps over an expanse of rotating muscles that contort rhythmically against her cheek. The figure moves swiftly while shaving through the water, dipping and rising at a pace equally frantic and seamless. Under her, it’s all smooth planes and speed.

Ugh. This had better be some glorious dolphin bearing her weight. It had better not be who she thinks—

“Get your foot off my thigh,” a baritone voice pants. “You’re pushing us down.”

“Mmmph,” she grunts.

This inspires a reluctant chuckle from her companion. “Unbelievable.”

That voice oozes down her ear canals and caramelizes there. Seriously, why does his exhaustion have to sound obscene?

Why? Because he’s a spoiled brat who’s been blessed with more attributes than he deserves. And because, as mortals would say, her eternal life sucks.

Nevertheless, Sorrow complies with the request. Mustering her strength, she shifts with a grudge. Her body is plastered like a starfish to her savior, her arms hooked around a solid throat that swallows hard.

No, she’s not riding on the spine of a celestial dolphin. This is a godly form. Unfortunately, it’s a familiar one. Even if he hadn’t spoken up, she knows how he moves, knows the cadence of him, knows the sound of him breathless, tireless.

What’s happening? Why is Envy swimming with Sorrow on his back? Why had he sounded panicked when he told her to get her foot off his thigh?

It had been a simple request. And Envy never panics.

Furthermore, why can’t she open her eyes and tell him where exactly she’d like to plant her foot? Why does she feel like putty? Why is she drained of energy?

Recollection swarms her mind.

The boat. The rapids. The wipeout.

Sorrow replays the scene, how a raging tide had sent her overboard, along with her weapons. The world had flipped upside down, the stars going spastic as she’d plunged into the depths. Initially, shock had locked her joints, the realization of what just happened paralyzing her.

After that, Sorrow had pulled herself together. But a funnel of water had latched onto her, ejecting into her nostrils as if shot from a syringe. The accident had turned into an underwater combat, with her flailing and the river rioting. She’d scrambled against its grasp, flinging her arms and kicking her limbs. Her teeth had clenched as she wrestled against the vacuum, however the more she’d done so, the more salvation receded.

As they had in the valley, memories had infested the final vestiges of awareness. Human soldiers screaming, and mortal bodies dropping, and her arrows failing to strike them in time.

Hospital tents. Bloody cots.

Sorrow had slapped at the water. She’d tried to outswim the nightmares.

How long was she under? Long enough for her lungs to surrender. Long enough to lose her archery to the abyss. And long enough for her vision to blacken, her loss of consciousness a blessing and a curse.

But just before that happened, she’d spotted a figure in the distance. In the gap between memories and defeat, visibility had shrunk to that silhouette, as luminous as a pinprick of light.

Like a winking star.

A winking star that had known how to swim.

Envy must have jumped into the river to save her. Sorrow loathes the idea of him playing the hero, but she’s not too proud to be grateful. All the same, she’s lousy at expressing thanks, so her tongue flops around in her mouth, searching for something to say.

By the way, why is he buckling? And did she just hear a grunt of pain?

While struggling to pry her eyes open, Sorrow relies on sensations. They’ve managed to escape the rapids, since these waters are calm. She notes the current’s direction, then compares it with his trajectory, then mumbles against his nape, “You’ll wear yourself out like this.”

“Shh,” he hisses.