The forest was alive with shadows, the wind moving like fingers through the trees.
Every sound made me flinch—branches snapping, leaves rustling—but Santiago's presence next to me was a tether.
We moved silently, boots barely brushing the dirt, but the air between us vibrated with unspoken words.
"You're tense," he murmured, brushing a hand along my shoulder as we crouched behind a fallen log.
"I'm not tense," I lied.
He smiled—a slow, dangerous smile—and leaned closer. "Your heartbeat tells a different story."
I wanted to deny it, to look away, but I didn't.
The truth was sharper than any knife. I was tense. For him. For what we might be, for what we couldn't say.
He lowered his voice. "I can't… not touch you."
The words made the air between us electric.
My pulse quickened as his fingers found mine, brushing lightly, testing, anchoring.
"Don't," I whispered, though my body betrayed me, leaning into his warmth.
"Don't what?"
I swallowed hard, words failing me.
He understood anyway. Slowly, carefully, he traced the line of my jaw with his thumb, tilting my face toward his.
His eyes, dark and infinite, searched mine for permission.
I gave it without speaking.
The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, tasting of smoke and earth and something dangerously close to hope.
My hands found his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath, feeling him steady me in a world that had gone mad.
We broke apart, just enough to breathe, foreheads resting together.
"This is stupid," I said, voice trembling. "We shouldn't—"
"Stupid doesn't feel like this," he interrupted, his lips ghosting over mine again.
I laughed softly, breathless. "It feels like falling."
"Then hold on," he said. "Hold on to me."
Hours passed like minutes. The forest faded.
The Veil flickered beyond the trees, distant but never far, and with every whisper of wind I realized: danger would always be out there.
But right now, here, we had a world that was only ours.
I let myself rest against him, feeling the slow, solid rhythm of his heartbeat.
For the first time in months, I felt like me again—not a weapon, not a hunted shadow, but someone capable of feeling.
And then, impossibly, he whispered, "I was afraid I'd lose you before I even had you."
My throat closed. "You… almost did."
He pressed his lips to my temple, and I let the tears come this time, warm and real.
"You're not leaving," I said.
"Not unless you make me," he replied.
And for a heartbeat, the world outside—the war, the hunters, the Veil—didn't exist. There was only us.
And maybe, for the first time, that was enough.