The HQ gardens are quiet beneath the soft breath of late afternoon. The ash trees stir gently, their branches just touched with green. The light is warm, golden, falling through the leaves in patterns that shift on the stone path at your feet.
You and Levi walk slowly, boots nearly silent on the worn stones. The hush between you is full of meaning, but neither of you breaks it.
Marla's marker stands beneath the oldest ash, the bark pale and scarred. The stone is simple, its carving clean and sure:
MARLA RENNET
For those who bought time with courage.
At the base of the stone, small tokens: a sprig of rosemary, a silver button, a folded note, corners softened by rain.
You kneel, breath catching at the coolness of the stone beneath your fingers. From your pocket you draw the small brass key—the one she pressed into your palm that night, her last gift. You set it down gently among the other offerings, watching the light catch on its surface before it settles into shadow.
Levi stands beside you, his hands in his pockets, his eyes steady on the marker. His voice is low, roughened by everything he's held in.
"She deserved better. But she gave us everything."
"She saved us," you whisper, voice tight with memory.
His hand brushes yours—brief, grounding—before you both turn back toward HQ, walking together through the quiet.
—
The room feels smaller now, warmer, bathed in the gold of late afternoon. Sunlight spills through the high windows, catching the slow drift of dust, turning it to fire. This is the room where it all began—where you and Levi once stood side by side, practicing how to be Lord Edward and Lady Elowyn Marchand. The room where you learned to lie with your eyes, to pretend with your touch, to bury the truth beneath duty.
The cloaks of those false identities still hang on their hooks—silent witnesses to the parts you no longer play.
You sink onto the edge of the bed where you once rehearsed stolen glances and polite deceit. The mattress gives beneath you, the fabric cool beneath your palms as you lean back. Your legs are loose, boots brushing the wood with a soft scuff, your shirt slipping at one shoulder, inviting his gaze without effort.You watch him, your smile soft, knowing.
"Funny, isn't it?" you murmur. "All the time we wasted in here, practicing how to pretend. The glances. The lies. The ridiculous pillow talk."
Levi lingers near the door, mouth tugging into that rare, quiet smile that's only for you. His voice is low, edged with memory. "I remember. Me trying to whisper about candlelight like I wasn't already ruined just looking at you."
Your heart trips. Your breath catches. "And me... pretending I didn't want you to mean it."
He crosses to the record player, winds it, sets the needle. The crackle fills the space—then the waltz, slow, rich, wrapping around you both like memory and promise.
He steps closer, offers his hand, gaze steady, warm.
Your fingers slide into his, rising slow, letting him pull you into him. Your voice is soft, teasing at the edge of heat. "Are you asking me to dance, Lord Edward?"
"Yeah," he says, thumb brushing slow along your palm. "And more than that, Lady Elowyn."
His hand finds your waist, sure, familiar. You sway together, boots whispering on wood, the music threading through the hush between you.
"We thought we had to practice this," he murmurs, breath warm at your temple. "But we didn't. We were already there."
You smile, eyes bright with the truth of it.
"Closer than either of us wanted to admit."
The music slows. His thumb strokes your waist where your shirt has slipped. His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling, his hand rising to brush your cheek like he means to memorize it.
"You know," his voice drops, rough and low, "if we'd stayed here one night longer, I'd have ruined you for good."
Your smile turns wicked, soft, real. Fingers curling at his shirt, you lean just enough to whisper at his ear. "You know... I could take you up on that. Ruining me here doesn't sound so bad."
He huffs a breath that's half a laugh, half a groan—and leans in to press a kiss to your cheek, slow and lingering, as if sealing the promise there. His voice rumbles low against your skin. "All right then."
And when the music fades, when the dust settles, the room holds no ghosts—only the heat of what's real, and the two of you, steady, hand in hand, choosing what comes next.