The storm of his tears had ebbed at last, leaving him with a hollowed kind of stillness. His breaths came slower, steadier, though damp lashes still clung together, evidence of everything he’d spilled. She didn’t move. Her arms stayed where they were, steady around him, as if releasing now might unravel the fragile calm he’d just managed to gather.

  Questions still pressed sharp at the back of her throat.

  Why? What happened?

  They snagged before reaching her tongue. The air between them was too heavy. Her mouth opened, closed again. Silence stretched, taut as a fraying thread.

  Finally, halting, she tried. “...Are you-”

  The word cracked jagged, too blunt.

  She bit the inside of her cheek, shifted her grip like that could steady her, and spoke softer, “are you okay?”

  A pause. Then almost awkwardly, “do you... want to talk about it?”

  It was the best she could manage. Mirroring the same lifeline he had once handed her. A way out, not a command. A door left ajar.

  His lashes fluttered. His gaze found hers as though surfacing from deep water. She loosened her hold instinctively, giving him space.

  A tired smile tugged faintly at his lips, “is it okay if I don’t?”

  She froze, startled. Then nodded once, quick, almost mechanical, “...yes.”

  Regret stirred even as the word left her mouth. She might never know his answer. But he had been patient with her, waiting against her paranoia that would’ve driven anyone else away. She wanted to give him the same in return. Especially when it felt like he’d cried for her.

  Her hand twitched midair before she caught herself. Fingers hovered, guilty of even wanting to touch. Her eyes flicked to his face, searching for some wince, some signal to retreat. None came.

  So she let the motion continue, slow, tentative, until her fingertips brushed along the damp streak beneath his eye. Feather-light, a wipe so soft it felt like testing the edge of a dream.

  Her breath caught.

  Too much? Too strange?

  But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t laugh. His lashes lowered instead, heavy, and he tilted minutely into her touch. So slight it could’ve been an accident. But enough to undo her.

  The silence swelled again. She let her thumb trace once more along the curve of his cheekbone before it stilled, anchoring him there.

  His chest rose unsteadily, “...you...”

  The word cracked, broke. He swallowed, tried again, quieter, “thank you, Lunlun.”

  Her hand trembled but didn’t leave his face. His own came up, covering hers, folding her fingers against his skin. He leaned into her palm, closed his eyes, as though trying to soak in every shred of warmth she offered, just as she was clinging to his.

  “That means more than you know,” he whispered.

  They lingered there, suspended in something precarious, until at last he lowered their joined hands. When his eyes opened again, he was smiling, small, careful, worn thin at the edges.

  Then, almost hesitantly, patching himself together with forced cheer, he murmured, “do you think we can... move from the floor? I’m sure you’re sore.”

  Of all things. That was what he said. That she might be sore.

  She let out an amused breath, moved beside him, rose to her feet, and offered him her hand.

  He took it with a grin, cheeks still wet, “so... should we maybe take a walk? Or would you rather stay in and... process?”

  She blinked.

  Why ask her? He was the one who had unraveled.

  “No. You choose,” she replied flatly. “You’re the crying.”

  “Rude,” he giggled, drying his face with his sleeve. Then, in mock offense, “you’re the one who made me cry, you know. Bully.”

  Her eyes widened, heart kicking.

  But his gaze was soft, grin easy, and she let herself laugh quietly.

  “So,” she asked, voice gentler, “a walk or stay in?”

  He tilted his head left, then right, weighing it with exaggerated care.

  Finally, “stay in. My handsomeness is reduced by this puffy face. I don’t dare step outside.”

  Another small chuckle slipped out of her, “alright then.”

  Her palms pressed lightly against his shoulder, easing him back onto the bed, under her. The gesture felt natural, and terrifying.

  He blinked once, twice, but didn’t resist.

  His confusion mirrored hers, though the smile never left his face.

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  “Just... lay down,” she muttered as she rose, “easier to process that way.”

  What am I doing?

  The whisper scalded through her mind. She had no clear answer. Only that the thought of him shouldering this alone felt unbearable. She wanted to lighten it. Even a little.

  Her chest tightened. She tried to cover it with composure, but the truth pressed beneath. She cared. Not shallow appeasement for someone stronger, but something deeper. Riskier. She didn’t want him to break. Not him.

  The thought warmed her, and terrified her. Because if she could feel this, she could lose this. And losing him would splinter her far worse than failing any mission.

  A soft chuckle slipped from him, fragile.

  “Alright,” he hesitated, then caught her hand, tugging until she stumbled onto the mattress beside him, “accompany me?”

  His fingers tangled with hers before she could think, “hope you don’t mind,” his voice was gentler now as he levitated her pillow close and adjusted his own. Side by side, knees bent against the edge.

  “I don’t mind,” she managed.

  His grin was quick, fleeting. He closed his eyes, breath evening into long, deliberate pulls. Inhale. Exhale.

  She could feel the storm still raging in him. His hand clenching hers, then loosening again. She brushed her fingers back, answering his rhythm with her own.

  Writ let him spiral through his thoughts as she clung to hers, her gaze boring into the ceiling.

  Kion had always been steady. The rock against her waves. The one offering comfort, holding things together. She had assumed, foolishly, that he could not break.

  But today he had.

  And it was because of her.

  Her chest tightened again. Why? How?

  She remembered the golden thread, the near-death she’d confessed. And him, frantic days ago, demanding she not dwell on dying. Dropping everything, just to check on her because he felt weird.

  Why?

  A wild thought spiraled. Maybe he wasn’t fairfolk at all, but something else. A reaper, feeling death’s edge before it struck. That would explain his hidden identity, his uncanny arrivals. But no. He feared death too much. Impossible.

  Another possibility lodged sharp.

  Maybe he feared only her death.

  The idea frightened her more than it should.

  Was it safe to believe? That he could care enough to be undone by her absence? When she was nothing but a tool, disposable, a puppet of the Accord?

  Her free hand brushed the outline of his coin pouch in her pocket.

  She was dying to know. Why her? She wasn’t the only shadow in the Accord’s machine. There were better people. Safer. People who could laugh easily, not fumble through every joke like she did.

  She’d heard men talk. How hard-to-get women were more attractive. Challenging. Fun to hunt. Was she his puzzle? And if so, what happened when he solved her? When the challenge ended?

  Would he leave?

  Her breath stilled.

  “No, I’m not leaving,” he murmured suddenly, voice tired but certain, “I told you to drill that into your mind. Why haven’t you?”

  Her head snapped to him. Eyes still closed, breath even, his hand tangled in hers. He hadn’t looked, but he’d read her anyway.

  “...Convince me you really can’t read minds.”

  He laughed softly, opening his eyes to glance at her, “I can’t, really. If I could, I wouldn’t have needed you to tell me about...” his voice hitched, “...about surviving the memory trap. I’d have known it yesterday.”

  She swallowed. True. If he could read minds, he would have unraveled then, not now.

  “Right,” she conceded, “then how? You said you feel me when I’m... thinking about death. Is that connected? How?”

  He exhaled long. Closed his eyes again, “maybe. I’m not sure how it works. It’s like I’m... attuned? To you. Hard to explain.”

  “When did it start?”

  “Long ago. More than a decade.”

  Her pulse jumped, “so you actually knew me before this? Why only appear now?”

  “It wasn’t this... intense, back then. I could push the thought of you aside. Leave it in the back of a drawer.”

  “And now?”

  He paused, silence stretching thin as he scrambled for words.

  Finally, “now I can’t stand the thought of you brushing against danger. There’s this urge, pressing, to come to you. That’s how I found you the night you drank Blissbane cure.”

  “So you can track me too?”

  Another pause.

  Then, hesitant, “...can I not answer that?”

  Her free hand fidgeted with the bedsheet. That implied yes. The thought locked her chest tight.

  She pushed herself upright, though she kept their hands linked.

  Was that why he always appeared? That night with the Blissbane potion. In the Tenzurah ruins, somehow appeared in front of her from the river, supplies bottomless. Even the trap in Cerulean Fold, did that count too?

  She went still, silent. Gaze narrowing as alarms flared. Yet instead of lashing out or bolting, she watched him. Weighing why he would admit this now. If he meant to control her, why offer her the chance to hate him for it?

  He opened his eyes, followed her up, and sat beside her. Exhaustion hollowed his expression.

  “Sorry,” his voice was softer now, “I dumped too much at once. Should’ve held back.”

  He leaned toward her, stopped, straightened again. Tapped his mouth, wry, “guess I short-circuited. Mouth won’t stop once the dam breaks.”

  Every lesson screamed danger in her mind. If he could feel her. Track her. That was threat. Not safety.

  And yet... he looked at her as if he expected her to run. As if he’d let her. That made no sense, not for a trap.

  “At this point you know I’ve bent things. Bent myself. If you change your mind, if you want me gone, say it. I’ll try. I won’t... come back unless you ask,” his voice cracked, “just say the word.”

  Her breath snagged. He dropped back to the mattress, massaging his temple with one hand, clutching hers tighter with the other. Every second he seemed to etch into his skin, as if memorizing contact he might lose.

  It felt more like self-loathing, not manipulation. Like he was handing her the blade to cut him free.

  Her mind spun too fast, choking on suspicion, confession, the weight of his tears. But beneath it all, a truth beat louder.

  It didn’t matter.

  She’d told him before their practice last night. None of it mattered. His past, his manipulations, his thoughts of her. She’d already decided there was no going back. She wouldn’t survive another day without him as her sun.

  The thought cut sharp, dangerous, familiar. She trembled.

  Her body moved before words could, lowering herself beside him again. Fingers clutching his hand, anchoring hard. Not pushing him away, but pulling closer.

  Her shoulder pressed to his. A shuddered breath escaped her, barely formed into words.

  “Don’t go.”

  A beat. Then softer, aching, “stay.”

  Her voice broke open, raw with desperation she couldn’t hide. She shifted closer, fitting herself against his side. One hand tangled in his, the other pressed tentative against his chest.

  For once, no walls. Just need.

  His lashes lifted with surprise, but through the weariness he smiled, “thank you, Lunlun.”

  She shook her head. Whispered, “thank you, Kion.”

  Neither explained. Neither needed to. She felt his reason, and knew he understood hers.

  Maybe who he really was didn’t matter. Maybe it was enough to believe she was the reason for his tears. That he feared losing her.

  Maybe his... attunement, whatever it was, wasn’t a cage but a shield.

  Maybe she could believe he wouldn’t leave. Because he was just as terrified of her absence as she was of his.

  Maybe, truly, it was okay to choose him. Because he would choose her, too.

  Her cheek was still pressed against his shoulder when the tenth bell chimed. Too early for the report. Too late to pretend none of this happened.

  Kion’s thumb traced once more over her wrist before falling still, “early lunch? You'll need food,” he said, voice steadier now, almost teasing.

  Writ let out a faint breath that might have been a laugh, might have been surrender.

  "No," she said, "you do."

  The bond between them didn’t slacken. It settled deeper, threading into the silence, making even the smallest distance feel too far.