The room is dim in that soft in-between way where shadows do not feel threatening, only private, and the quiet between the three of us carries weight rather than tension, because everything that needed to be said has already been carved into blood, stone, and choice.
Axel stands close enough that I can feel the warmth rolling off his body in slow steady waves, and Atticus is just behind me, not touching yet but near enough that the bond hums faintly in recognition, and the space between us feels charged without being frantic.
No one rushes.
No one reaches first.
We simply breathe together for a few seconds, and somehow that feels heavier than any sudden movement ever could.
Axel’s fingers lift to my jaw, not gripping, not claiming, just resting there like he is reminding himself that
