Tavian's hands tremble as he presses the access code, the elevator doors gliding open with a soft sigh. His tie is undone, collar askew, jaw shadowed with stubble he hasn't bothered to shave. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, carving sharp planes of ambivalence across his anxious face. At each floor, he glances at his reflection in the mirrored walls, pulse thudding—wondering, for the thousandth time, if Lyska is waiting, or if she’s already gone.

When the elevator dings open onto the rooftop, the city stretches beyond, smeared in the gauze of dawn. Lyska stands at the edge, wind snatching at her black blazer, hair wild and unpinned. There is something haunted in the slope of her shoulders, yet she holds her chin high, lips painted the color of unforgivable decisions. She turns as Tavian’s footsteps crunch against the gravel. Her mascara is smudged, eyes rimmed with red—a mask barely holding.

She doesn’t say his name. Instead, she laughs—a brittle, defiant sound. “You’re actually here.” The words hang between them, thick with relief and accusation.

He sounds exhausted, voice cracking. “Where else would I be?” He wants to reach for her but hesitates, hands clenching at his sides. Shame and longing war on his face; the memory of everything they’ve survived flickers in the way he looks at her, raw and unguarded.

Lyska steps forward, shrugging out of her blazer—shoulders bare, skin goose-pimpled in the morning chill. She stares at him, daring him to look away. “It’s over. Glasswell. Dersh. My whole fucking life. I don’t know what happens next.” Her laugh breaks, a shudder running through her, mouth trembling.

Tavian reaches for her at last, fingers carding shakily through her hair. Their bodies find each other—awkward, desperate, like they’re afraid this touch might be their last. His hands slide up her arms, pulling her into him, and she buries her face in his neck, breath warm and ragged. The city glows behind her, the skyline reflected in her wet lashes.

He kisses her, slow at first, then harder—biting back a sob as her hands fumble with his shirt, clutching at fabric like she could hold him together. “Stay,” he whispers against her mouth, voice pleading. “We could run. Or fight. Or—I don’t care. Just don’t let go.”

She kisses him back, fierce and hungry, tears streaking down her cheeks as she laughs again, half-mad with relief and devastation. “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” she chokes out. They sink to the rooftop, pavement scraping through thin dress pants and bare knees, bodies entwined in a final, wild embrace. Their movements are frantic, clothes tugged aside, skin pressed to skin. Every touch is apology and promise—Tavian’s fingers trembling as they trace the bruises on her thighs, Lyska’s nails digging into his shoulders, drawing him closer, always closer.

Below, sirens wail—Glasswell’s demise a distant roar—but here they are untouchable, lost in each other, crying out and clinging as if the world might shatter any second.

Somewhere on the floors below, Aelira watches from behind a wall of glass. Her suit jacket is draped over her arm, hair mussed with exhaustion, eyes rimmed in uncertainty. She lingers, one palm pressed to the window, face softening as she glimpses Tavian and Lyska locked together in the bruised light. There is pride in her smile, and something lonelier—a silent farewell as she turns away, shoulders set, a single tear furrowing her cheek.

On the rooftop, dawn creeps over Tavian and Lyska’s entwined bodies. They hold each other long after the first light touches their skin, breathing in the silence, hearts beating out a question neither dares to answer.

Finally, Lyska murmurs, “What happens now?” Her fingers tangle in his. Tavian only shakes his head, forehead pressed to hers, as if the answer might be whispered in the space between heartbeats.

The city stretches beneath them, wounded and bright. They do not move.