Veyron stands in the hushed corridors after midnight, stripped of his uniform, all black edges softened by defeat. His hands shake as he skims the security badge over the closing office door for the last time. He catches his reflection in the dark glass—jaw clenched, eyes ringed in shadows, hair mussed by worry. The museum is silent, but he feels Era’s presence everywhere—the ghost of her laughter echoing in marble, the memory of her mouth pressed against his in the cold glow of the monitors. His chest aches with something ugly and tender: love that tastes like grief.

He finds her in the sculpture hall, alone beneath the lopsided spill of moonlight. She wears a faded cardigan over her dress, tired but newly unafraid. Her hands tremble as she catalogues the last artifacts, fingers tracing gilded frames with reverence. She turns at his footsteps—Veyron notices how she straightens, shoulders tense, lips parted as if bracing for another storm. But there’s sorrow there now, not fear, and it holds him back.

“You’re leaving?” Her voice is small, raw around the edges. Veyron nods, jaw working. “All I wanted was to protect you,” he says, words thick with regret, “but I ruined everything. I can’t… I won’t hurt you anymore.” For a moment, something fierce flickers in his gaze—then it shatters, and he steps back, surrender written in every angle of his posture.

Era steps close, searching his face for the man she once needed. “You never had to own me, Veyron. I just wanted you to see me.” Her voice is gentle, as if shushing a wounded animal. His throat works, but no words come. He brushes his thumb across her cheek—one last, trembling touch—then lets his hand fall. Their eyes meet, holding a thousand unsaid apologies, and then he goes, boots echoing into emptiness.

In the quiet that follows, Era leans her forehead against the frame of a painting, drawing a shaky breath. It is Lirian who finds her there, his pale blue dress shirt rumpled beneath his work coat, curls damp from anxious hands run through them. He hesitates, gaze heavy with longing and hope, holding himself at the threshold as if he might flee if she flinches.

She lifts her eyes, wet-lashed and shining. “I don’t want to hide anymore,” she whispers, voice breaking open. Lirian’s restraint cracks; he crosses the space, gathering her close, his hands trembling at her back. She buries her face in his chest, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of him—linseed oil, rain, and memory.

He cups her jaw, his touch reverent, heartbreak and hunger warring on his face. “We’re both broken,” he murmurs against her hair. “But if you let me—” She silences him with a kiss. It is gentle at first, then urgent—months of longing collapsing into heat. His hands slide beneath her cardigan, fingertips ghosting along her spine, as she tugs at his shirt, desperate for skin. Their bodies mold together, breaths tangled, desire and hope surging between them.

They sink onto the crates, careless of art and consequence, clothing falling away—her dress pulled over her head, his shirt unbuttoned with shaking hands. Lirian’s eyes never leave hers, searching, pleading for trust. Their mouths meet hungrily, her fingers threading into his hair, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. He enters her with a gasp, every motion slow and aching, as if worshipping not just her body, but the chance to be chosen, finally and truly.

Afterward, Era lies draped across his chest, his heart thunder in her ear. Dawn edges through the windows, pale gold pooling across scattered canvases and their entwined bodies. He brushes tears from her cheeks with gentle kisses, promising nothing but honesty and the will to try. Her laugh, shaky and real, fills the space where tragedy once lived.

Downstairs, Cael sits in the breakroom, hands curled around a cooling cup of tea. He watches the sunrise alone, shoulders hunched, the faint tremor in his grip betraying nerves—but his phone glows with a message: “You’re not alone.” Lirian’s name. A tiny, uncertain smile breaks through Cael’s sarcasm.

The museum is battered, future uncertain—Zelle is gone, leaving only silence and the clean-cut wound of his departure. Era stands in the empty gallery later that morning, gaze steady now, hips flush to Lirian’s as he draws her in by the waist. They sway slow in the hush, no music but their breaths and soft laughter. She closes her eyes as he kisses her temple, the warmth of his hands promising, for now, a love built on truth—not possession, but a restoration.

The world outside presses close, secrets still breathing in the walls, but inside this fragile space, hope lingers—fragile, imperfect, and real.