Sirae’s suit jacket—midnight blue, tailored to intimidate—hangs askew off one shoulder as she stands before the boardroom’s lacquered table, spine poised, eyes molten steel. A vein throbs at her temple; she refuses to flinch as Amaya Norell, impeccable in a silk blouse, glares over half-moon glasses. Cael—tie loosened, curls mussed, jaw shadowed with sleepless stubble—waits tense at her side. His hand hovers at her back, not quite touching, but she feels the heat anyway, the silent plea: stay.

With a flick, Sirae slides the company statement across the table, voice steady. “We’re not hiding. Not as lawyers, not as lovers. Ask your questions.” Her lips are tight, but when Cael’s thumb grazes her hip, her breath softens; her heart pounds so hard she thinks everyone must hear. She catches him watching: hunger and fear fighting behind his clever, haunted eyes.

Across the glass, the board is all narrowed eyes and murmurs, but it’s Cael’s father, stoic in his charcoal suit, who finally says, “And what else have you been hiding?” The words bite, but Cael’s mouth curves, bitter and brave.

“Everything,” he says, voice rough. “But not anymore.” She slips her fingers into his, letting the world see. The smallest surrender, and it’s everything.

When the session breaks, the corridor buzzes with whispered threats. Thalen stands near the elevators, his suit jacket crooked, tie knotted with nervous fingers. Liseva—her dark hair loose today, eyes darker still—waits by the door. He faces her, voice trembling but clear. “You could’ve ruined us.” He swallows, knuckles white. “But you didn’t. Why?” He has never looked so raw, or so real.

She shrugs, eyes flickering, regret flickering with them. “Not everything deserves to burn.” For a breathless moment, Thalen’s bravado fades. He leans in, wanting more—a reason, a promise—but she’s already gone, heels clicking away. Alone, he drags a hand through his hair, relief and heartbreak tangled in his chest.

Sirae finds Cael on the rooftop, the city alive beneath them. The breeze lifts his shirt collar, his silhouette inked in streetlight. He’s waiting, anxiety carved into the tight line of his shoulders. She stands behind him, fingers trembling as she undoes the last button of his shirt, letting it fall away; vulnerability is a slow, electric thing. He turns, eyes wide, utterly open.

She kisses him—slow, aching, the press of her mouth a question and an answer all at once. Cael’s hands slide to her waist, pulling her flush against him, every line of her body mapped by hungry palms. There’s a desperation to their touch, a reverence, as if neither truly believed this moment would arrive. She tastes the salt at the edge of his jawline, feels his shiver as he breathes her name.

Her skirt pools at her feet; she laughs softly, shaky, unguarded, and he steadies her with both hands. The city hums, far away now, as he sinks to his knees, lips tracing fire along her thigh, her stomach, her ribs—devotion in every movement. Sirae’s hands thread through his hair, tugging as she gasps, her body no longer armor but invitation. She pulls him up, kisses him hard, wraps her legs around his waist. His mouth is everywhere—her collarbone, her shoulder, her lips—swallowing every shuddered confession she can’t name.

They fall together, skin to skin, the cool air tangled with heat. Every thrust, every cry, every desperate clutch means more than words ever could; fear and longing dissolving in open air, no more hiding, no more calculation, just brutal, beautiful need. She whispers, “Don’t let go,” and he answers, “Never.”

Later, tangled in his arms beneath the stars, Sirae studies his sleeping face, softer than she’s ever seen it. There is peace, but also the sharp ache of everything uncertain—the scars, the boardroom politics, the stories tomorrow’s headlines might spin. She presses a kiss to his shoulder, then the scar near his ribs, claiming him in small ways.

Dawn edges the skyline as Thalen joins them, jacket slung over one shoulder, hopeful half-smile on his lips as he sets steaming coffee beside the two. They rise, clothes rumpled, hair wild, eyes red and shining—exposed, but unbroken. For a moment, the three of them lean against the rail, silent, watching the sun catch the glass towers.

The city stirs around them, but for now, they are enough—scared, shining, unfinished. Sirae threads her fingers through Cael’s, lets her head rest on his bare shoulder, and for the first time in years, she dares to believe in more.