Zevan stands on the rooftop, hands shoved deep in his suit pockets, the night air sharp against his bare forearms where he’s rolled his sleeves. His jaw is shadowed, cheeks hollow under the neon spill of the “Luminex” sign, eyes flicking down to the street every few seconds as if he might bolt. Scuffed dress shoes tap, restless. Rysa steps out of the stairwell, navy silk blouse clinging to her, rain-damp hair coiled in a loose bun. Her heels make her taller, shoulders squared, hands shaking slightly as she holds a paper cup of bourbon.

He looks up, features locked somewhere between apology and hope. “Didn’t think you’d come,” Zevan says quietly, voice raw but steady.

Rysa’s eyes meet his, flicker down. There’s a tired grace to the way she moves—wary, but unwilling to keep running. “Wouldn’t miss the final curtain,” she answers, mouth twisting into something almost resembling a smile.

The tension stretches. Zevan’s hand lifts, hesitates, then he touches her cheek softly, tracing a wet strand of hair back. Rysa closes her eyes just long enough for him to feel the tremor running through her. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For everything.”

A long pause. She exhales, slow and pained. “No more lies. I want to be done hurting you.” Her voice cracks, and for a second Zevan sees every break in her armor, every sleepless night behind her quick wit.

Behind them, footsteps echo—sharper, brisk. Caelix appears, suit jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt untucked, lavender tie askew. His eyes hold too much exhaustion, too much beauty, guarded beneath a flash of something that could be regret or longing. “Figured I’d find you up here,” he says, wry but with none of his old arrogance. For a second, all three stand in the blue-dark, silence crackling.

Caelix looks at Zevan, then at Rysa. His voice is unsteady. “I’m sorry, too. For—” he falters, his usual eloquence stolen, hands twisting the fabric of his jacket, “—for making you choose, for everything.”

Rysa sets her drink down, stepping forward until she’s close enough to touch both men. She reaches—one hand on Zevan’s wrist, the other finding Caelix’s rumpled collar. Their breathing syncs up, slow, ragged. The apology tastes almost like forgiveness. “I don’t know what comes next. I just know I can’t do it alone.”

Zevan squeezes her hand, and for the first time their eyes meet without bitterness. Caelix’s lips twist into a vulnerable little smile, betrayal and love warring on his face.

Something unspoken passes between them—pain, hope, recognition of all they’ve survived. Zevan tilts his head, brow furrowed, searching Rysa’s face for any sign she’ll run. Instead, she leans in, brushing trembling lips to his. The kiss is unhurried, soft, almost shy, as if learning him all over again.

Caelix stands rigid a moment, then lets his jacket slide to the concrete. He lays his hand atop Rysa’s at his collar, thumb tracing the pulse at her wrist. She turns, her forehead pressing to his, breathing him in. “I forgive you,” Rysa murmurs, so quietly it could be lost to the wind.

Below, distant sirens fade; here, only the ragged choir of their breaths. They pull each other in, not for sex or closure, but because the need to be touched, to be understood, is bigger than pride.

Inside, the celebration is over, the office half-dark and abandoned. Zevan takes Rysa’s hand, leading her through cubicles scattered with confetti and shattered glass, Caelix trailing behind, lingering at the threshold, a silent nod passing between the men—something changed but not broken. Caelix leaves, footsteps echoing into the stairwell, and Rysa turns to Zevan, eyes bright with tears.

She traces the line of his jaw, fingers trembling. “Are we allowed a happy ending?”

He laughs, soft and aching, drawing her into him, warm and desperate, both of them stripped bare by what they’ve survived. They kiss, slow at first, laughter shaking through breathless kisses, clothes loosening, falling in careless puddles to the carpet. Skin meets skin—freckles and scars and nervous, greedy hands. For once, neither tries to hide.

He buries his face in her neck, whispering, “I’m scared.” Rysa kisses his temple, wet with tears and sweat, and answers, “So am I. Stay anyway.”

They make love in the soft spill of after-hours city light, every movement honeyed with forgiveness—tender, lingering, as if mapping each other’s sorrow and hope. Outside, sunrise stains the windows gold. Zevan curls around Rysa, heartbeat pressed to hers, and together, tangled and exhausted, they watch the sky change.

The future is uncertain—a raw ache between them—but for now, there’s nowhere else either one wants to be.