Morning crept over the city, sliding gold through the cracked windows of The Meridian Tribune newsroom. The place was nearly silent, just the soft hum of machines and the quiet tread of old, tiled floors. Rivan sat slumped at his desk, stubble scratching his palm, last night’s shirt open at the collar. The previous hours blurred—a final desperate rewrite, the press clattering to life, the exposé sent to every subscriber in the city. His chest felt hollow, emptied and aching.

He barely heard Elladyn approach until her shadow brushed over his keyboard. Her auburn hair was wild, rain-lashed, eyes rimmed scarlet from the sleepless night. She moved quietly, pausing just outside his reach. The space between them vibrated with things unsaid—hurt, longing, the crackle of unfinished stories.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asked, her voice a little raw.

He looked up at her, jaw clenched tight. “I kept thinking about what comes next. About you.”

She stared back, cheeks flushed, lips open as if to say more. For a moment, neither moved. She came closer, the scent of warm skin and coffee lingering on her. Rivan’s hand trembled as he reached for her, tracing his thumb along the fading bruise on her wrist. Her heartbeat fluttered beneath his touch, quickening with every inch.

“You could’ve told me everything,” she whispered. “You should have.”

His breath caught. “I was afraid you’d run. Afraid you’d see the worst in me…and you’d be right.”

She pressed her forehead against his, their words dissolving in a hush of breath and memory. The grief between them was a living thing. But then Elladyn kissed him—soft at first, searching. Their bodies unfolded into each other with desperate gratitude, hands sliding beneath clothes, skin to skin, her laughter cut short by his mouth claiming hers. Every touch was a question: can I trust you—can I forgive you—can I stay?

Rivan nudged her onto the weathered newsroom couch, fingers lacing through hers, his lips brushing every scar he found. Elladyn arched toward him, gasping as his tongue traced the curve of her collarbone, stubble scraping her skin. Her hands roamed, pulling him impossibly closer, each thrust a silent promise of something more. She sobbed against his shoulder, pleasure melting with pain in a slow, shuddering release.

Afterward, they lay tangled, faces inches apart. He brushed hair from her cheek, thumb shaking. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, and meant it this time—not just for what he’d done, but for everything he’d made her risk to stay.

She leaned in, voice trembling with hope and ruin. “Let’s write something honest. Together this time.”

Across the newsroom, Hadris paced by the window. He’d addressed the staff just hours before, spine rigid as he owned up to debts he’d buried in silence. Most had watched with blank shock. Onai stood beside him, hand threading into his. Her ambitions lay smoldering in the ruin of the Tribune’s future, but she pressed her lips to his wrist, choosing him anyway—publicly, catastrophically.

Hadris met Onai’s gaze, suspicion and devotion warring in his eyes. He wasn’t sure what would become of either of them. But she squeezed his hand and smiled—a shaky, fierce thing. Together, they would face whatever storm the morning brought.

As sunlight sharpened across scattered papers and empty desks, Rivan drew Elladyn into his lap, arms wrapped around her like armor. Their breath mingled—uncertain, but free. The first copies of the Tribune’s final edition thudded onto the front stoop, their names bold above the lead, ink still drying, futures unwritten.

Outside, distant sirens faded into the promise of a new day. Inside, they faced each other, hands entwined, shadows falling behind them. Hope flickered at the edge of everything broken, the world cracking open just wide enough to let the light in.