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DEREK

T he first thing I feel is pain.

Deep, bone-deep. Like something cracked open and I wasn’t sewn back up right. It burns at the edges of my ribs, curls under my shoulder, coils like smoke in my lungs.

Good.

Means I’m alive.

The second thing I feel is her.

Hazel.

Her scent hits me like a memory—wild herbs, smudged ink, vanilla lip balm, and something always just a little bit scorched. She’s close. Closer than breath.

I force my eyes open.

The Grove glows with dawn light, soft and golden. Everything’s wet with dew. The mist clings low to the earth like it’s afraid to rise. The trees hold their limbs like old gods.

And Hazel?

She’s slumped in a wooden chair beside me—someone dragged it here, probably Milo or Thorn—head lolled against the back, knees tucked under her chin, one hand still wrapped around mine.

Fast asleep.

She looks wrecked.

Hair in knots. Dirt on her cheek. Lips slightly parted, like she passed out mid-threat and forgot to follow through.

I watch her breathe.

Slow. Soft. Uneven.

Like she fought something bigger than herself and barely lived to tell the tale.

Which she did.

And I didn’t help.

Not really.

I took the hit, yeah. Classic vampire theatrics.

But she is the one who faced the veil. Who rewrote a spell out of panic and instinct and pulled an entire forest back from the brink using magic no one else could wield without tearing themselves apart.

Hazel Blackmoore is chaos incarnate.

And she stayed.

Even when it would’ve been easier to run.

Her fingers twitch around mine.

She mumbles something under her breath.

“Don’t… hex my heart…”

I choke on a laugh.

It hurts.

But it’s worth it.

Her eyes flutter open.

She blinks once.

Then sits bolt upright. “DEREK.”

“Hey,” I croak.

She stares at me.

Then smacks my arm. “You jerk. You absolute stubborn, immortal DUMBASS. You nearly died! You did die , for like—like five seconds! Maybe longer! Time is a construct, and you were bleeding everywhere! ”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.”

“I’m fine now.”

She glares.

Her lower lip trembles.

And then she collapses back into the chair and drops her head into her hands.

“Gods,” she mutters. “You scared the hell out of me.”

I shift, slowly, carefully, until I can sit up. My entire body protests.

I don’t care.

I reach for her hand again.

She lets me.

“You didn’t have to stay,” I say quietly.

She looks up, eyes wild.

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

I nod.

Because I do.

But I need to say it anyway.

For her.

For me.

“I’ve been walking through this world for a long damn time,” I begin, voice low, rough from disuse. “Seen kingdoms fall. Watched people burn. Buried everyone I ever loved.”

She doesn’t look away.

“And I thought that was it. That I was just… existing. A weapon with no real purpose. A shadow that kept moving because stopping meant remembering.”

I pause.

Breathe.

Then say it.

“But then you happened.”

She blinks. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

“You are the reason,” I say. “The reason I stayed. The reason I stepped in front of that blast. The reason I didn’t let myself turn to dust in some forgotten ruin. You. ”

She doesn’t speak.

Tears spill over her lashes, silent and angry and relieved.

I pull her forward, wrap my arms around her, hold her like an anchor.

Her hands fist in my shirt.

For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m holding her up.

I feel like she’s holding me.

“Don’t run from this,” I murmur into her hair.

She nods against my chest.

“I won’t,” she says. “But only if you promise not to die again. Seriously. I will kick your soul out of the afterlife.”

I grin into her hair. “Deal.”

And for a long time, we just breathe.

Together.

Like we finally found the place we were supposed to stop running.

We sit in silence for a long time.

Her tucked under my arm. My hand stroking slow lines across her shoulder.

The Grove hums around us—soft and alive again, like the forest decided we’d earned a moment of peace.

And then she shifts.

Not a lot. Just enough for me to feel it—her body go tense, her breath hitch.

I glance down.

Hazel’s face is turned slightly away, her eyes on some invisible point just beyond the trees.

And tears are spilling down her cheeks.

Not the messy, theatrical sobs she uses when she’s joking or pretending she’s not scared.

These are quiet.

Shaking.

Real.

She lifts a hand to wipe them away fast—like she’s embarrassed.

“Don’t,” I say, catching her wrist gently.

Her lip trembles.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I—I held it together all night, and now it’s over and you’re okay and I just— I can’t stop. ”

“Then don’t.”

She blinks.

I lean in closer, my voice low. “You don’t have to hold it together right now. Not for me.”

Her shoulders shake once, and then she just lets go.

Sobs rip from her chest—raw and startled, like they caught her off guard.

And I just hold her.

Tight.

Like if I let go, the whole world might cave in.

She clutches at my shirt, her tears soaking through the fabric, her magic sparking faintly with every breath. Her knees come up, her whole body curling into mine like she’s trying to disappear.

And gods, she’s so alive.

So messy and magical and maddening.

And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Not because she’s crying.

But because she’s letting me see her cry.

No walls. No jokes. No glitter to hide behind.

Just her.

Real. Wrecked. Brave as hell.

I bury my hand in her hair and kiss the top of her head, gentle.

“You’re safe,” I whisper. “You did it. You saved us.”

“I thought I lost you,” she hiccups.

“You didn’t.”

She presses closer.

“I would’ve burned the veil down if I had to,” she says.

“I know.”

And she would’ve.

And maybe that’s what scares me most.

Because for the first time in two hundred years, someone didn’t just fight for me.

They fought to keep me.

And I’m not letting her go.

Not now. Not ever.