Lira found me alone—not by accident, and not immediately after training, but later that evening when the sky shifted to muted violet and lanterns flickered awake along the corridors.
Seris had been called away by Halin for something "logistically complicated," which probably meant she argued about protocol until someone gave up. I expected Lira to follow her, but instead, she drifted back toward where I stood near the balcony overlooking the outer ward.
"Arin?" she said softly.
I turned, and she smiled that shy, gentle smile that always made my chest feel too small. "I thought maybe you'd want company."
A part of me wanted to say I was fine—habit, instinct—but something in her eyes made the words dissolve.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I do."
We walked to the railing together, the breeze brushing through her hair. She rested her hands lightly against the stone, shoulders close enough to touch but not quite leaning.
After a moment, she spoke.
"I've been thinking about how it reacts to you now." Her voice was soft, tentative. "And how it reacts to us."
I nodded. "Me too."
She took a slow breath, her fingers twisting together nervously. "I don't think the entity understands what we're becoming."
"Do you?" I asked.
Lira blinked at me—then looked away quickly, cheeks warming. "I… think I'm starting to."
I waited, letting her choose her pace. Her hands stayed clasped, knuckles pale with tension.
"My magic has always been quiet," she said finally. "Healing is subtle, slow. People don't notice healers unless they need fixing. And even then, they don't see us."
I listened, feeling something ache for her.
"No one ever asked what I wanted," she continued softly. "Only what I could do for them."
I turned fully toward her. "I see you."
She looked up, startled—then her eyes shone with something fragile.
"I know," she whispered.
Her voice trembled. "And that's new for me."
My heart tightened. "Lira…"
She took a tiny step closer, shoulder brushing mine, as if testing the space between us.
"With you," she said slowly, "I don't feel like a healer. I feel like a person. Like someone worth holding onto, even when I'm not fixing anything."
"You are," I said immediately. "You're worth holding onto just because you're you."
Her breath caught.
I didn't touch her—she moved first.
Gently. Carefully.
Fingers sliding into mine like she was learning how hands were meant to fit together.
It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't intense.
It was quiet.
Warm.
Brave.
"I'm still learning," she whispered.
"So am I," I admitted.
Lira's lashes fluttered, and she leaned just slightly closer—not quite touching beyond our linked fingers, just present, just near, just choosing this moment with me.
"Arin," she murmured, "do you ever think… maybe the bond formed because we were already connected, even before we realized it?"
I looked at her—really looked—and everything inside me settled into something gentle and certain.
"Yes," I said. "I think that all the time."
Her eyes softened, wonder glowing there. "So do I."
She didn't kiss me.
I didn't kiss her.
We just stood there, fingers intertwined, hearts quiet, learning each other one breath at a time.
And somewhere deep inside, the fracture pulsed once—
soft, slow, peaceful.
Like it understood too.
We didn't move for a long time.
The lantern glow warmed Lira's features, turning her eyes a quiet shade of gold. She looked at me the way someone looked at a sunrise they weren't sure they deserved.
Her fingers tightened around mine, just barely.
"Arin," she whispered, "can I ask something… selfish?"
I swallowed. "Anything."
She turned toward me—slowly, deliberately—and the distance between us shrank into something fragile, something breakable.
"What if…" Her voice broke softly. "What if the triad isn't the reason I feel this way?"
My breath caught. "What way?"
She exhaled, trembling. "Like being near you feels right."
My pulse skipped hard enough to feel.
"Lira…" I breathed.
She stepped closer—so close that if either of us leaned forward an inch, our foreheads would touch.
Her voice was barely sound. "Sometimes I think the bond didn't create this. It just revealed it."
I didn't know if I moved first or she did—but suddenly her face was right there, her breath brushing mine, her eyelashes lowering just a little.
The bond pulsed—slow, warm, bright.
She drew in a tiny breath. "Arin… can I—?"
Footsteps clicked loudly down the corridor.
We both jolted back at the same second—Lira's face flushing scarlet, my heart tripping in my chest.
The footsteps passed. Someone murmured something about curfew. Neither of us spoke.
Lira pressed a hand to her lips like she needed to keep something from escaping.
"That was…" she whispered breathlessly, "…almost."
I nodded, voice gone entirely. "Yes."
Her fingers trembled as she pulled hers away, but she didn't step far—just enough to steady herself.
"I should go," she murmured. "Before I forget to breathe."
"Lira—" I reached without thinking.
She caught my hand again.
Pressed her forehead softly to the back of my fingers.
And whispered—
"Soon."
Then she stepped back, cheeks flushed, eyes brighter than any star overhead.
She didn't look away until she had to turn the corner.
And when she did—
the bond pulsed like a heartbeat, and the fracture pulsed in echo.
I didn't see her again until much later that night.
I had stayed awake, sitting near the balcony rail, pretending I was watching the sky—but really just replaying every breath we shared earlier. I told myself I wasn't waiting for her. But every sound in the corridor made my pulse jump.
And then I heard her steps.
Soft. Hesitant. Familiar.
My chest tightened before I even turned.
Lira stood in the doorway, hands clasped nervously in front of her. Hair loose, robe slightly wrinkled, cheeks flushed like she'd been pacing for a while trying to decide whether to come here at all.
"Arin," she whispered.
I stood without thinking. "Hey."
She walked toward me slowly, like each step was a question she wasn't sure she was allowed to ask. When she reached me, she stopped only a breath away.
"I left," she murmured, "and all I kept thinking was… maybe I shouldn't have."
My throat tightened. "I was thinking the same thing."
She looked up at me—eyes soft and uncertain, but full of something warm that made my heart feel too full.
"Before," she said, "when we—almost…"
Her voice trailed off, but her meaning didn't.
I stepped closer.
Not rushing. Not grabbing.
Just closing the space gently, like the world had been tilted toward this moment for a long time.
Her breath hitched.
I lifted one hand slowly—giving her every chance to step away—and brushed a stray piece of hair from her cheek. My fingers trembled.
Lira leaned into the touch like she'd been waiting her entire life for it.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
"So am I," I said softly.
Her eyes closed for half a second, like she was gathering courage from somewhere deep.
Then she whispered—
"Can I be selfish again?"
"Yes," I breathed. "Please."
She rose onto her toes—tentative, fragile—and pressed the softest kiss to my mouth.
Barely a touch. Barely a breath. Just the faintest brush of lips that sent heat rushing through every part of me.
I froze— not because I didn't want it, but because it felt like the entire world suddenly made sense.
Her lips lingered—warm, gentle, cautious—like she was afraid she might break whatever held us together.
So I leaned in too.
Slowly. Carefully. Answering her softness with my own.
The kiss deepened only by a fraction—still feather-light—but full of every unsaid thing between us.
When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, breaths shaking, eyes shining.
"That was…" she whispered, voice trembling.
I finished for her, barely managing the words—
"Worth waiting for."
She laughed—a tiny, breathless sound—and then kissed me again, just as soft, just as warm, just as universe-changing.
When she finally stepped back, she whispered a single word.
"Soon wasn't soon enough."
And when she left this time, I didn't feel her going.
I felt her staying.
Inside the bond. Inside the fracture. Inside me.