“So should you,” he replies. “Neither of us is very good at that.”
I huff a soft breath. “I hate being treated like an asset.”
His gaze sharpens, not in anger, but recognition.
“I know.”
“I hate that every decision I make gets weighed for usefulness,” I continue, the words slipping out now that they’ve found the opening. “To the coven. To the council. To Nytheria itself. I’m always something to be positioned. Something to be leveraged.”
He listens without interrupting, without correcting, without trying to reframe it into something more palatable.
“And with you,” I add, hesitating only a moment, “I was terrified it would become the same thing. Just… bigger. Louder. More dangerous.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I never wanted to be another cage,” he says.
“I know that now.”
I shift again, pushing myself upright with slow care. He moves instinctively, one hand hovering near my back without touching, ready to support but not assuming. The restraint in that nearly undoes me.
“I’m tired, Zeidan,” I admit. “Tired of being strong all the time. Tired of proving I deserve to stand where I stand.”
Something in his expression fractures, just a little.
“I am afraid of repeating the past,” he says after a moment. “Of waking up one day and realizing I trusted the wrong thing again. The wrong person.”
His eyes meet mine, unflinching.
“And I am afraid that if I lose you, it won’t be because of betrayal,” he continues. “It will be because I taught myself to step back instead of stay.”
The bond responds by deepening, like a breath taken in unison. I reach out before I can overthink it, my fingers brushing his wrist. He stills immediately, every bit of his attention snapping to the point of contact, but he doesn’t pull away.
“I don’t want to be saved,” I tell him softly. “I want to be chosen.”
His breath catches, subtle but unmistakable.
“I am choosing you,” he says. “Not as a duty. Not as a strategy.”
“Just… me?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of it is overwhelming. I lean forward, closing the small space between us, there is no rush, no pressure from the bond urging us faster or harder. Just intention. Just trust.
Our lips meet in a slow, tentative kiss.
It is nothing like before. No heat spiraling out of control. No magic crackling at the edges of my vision. Just warmth. Familiarity. A quiet affirmation that settles rather than burns.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then cups my cheek with reverent care. The kiss deepens slightly, unhurried, exploratory, as if we are learning each other without the need to consume.
I sigh into him, my forehead resting briefly against his as we part, our breaths mingling.
“This feels different,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he agrees. “It feels like consent.”
A faint smile curves my mouth. My thumb traces the inside of his wrist where his pulse beats steady and strong, grounding. He closes his eyes for just a second at the touch, as if allowing himself to feel without guarding it.