"I didn't… mean to lie," she said finally, her voice cracked and uneven. "I just… put on a version of me that I thought could survive. Annie was good. She was kind. Controlled. She was… enough for you."
"I never wanted enough," he said, turning toward her completely. "I wanted you."
Her breath hitched. "You don't know how much it hurt to be her. To smile like everything was fine. To keep pretending I wasn't screaming inside. I thought… if I could just fake being whole long enough, maybe I could become it."
He reached for her then, just a hand, resting lightly on hers.
She didn't pull away.
"And then Luxor…" she trailed off, voice dropped, hoarse, hollow, stripped bare.
"I didn't only sleep with him to get the rune. I wanted to feel nothing. I thought… if I gave it away, it wouldn't feel like it was ever taken."
His chest tightened. Not in jealousy. Not in rage.
Just a quiet, devastating ache.
"I wasn't trying to hurt you," she added, eyes finally turning to his. "I was trying to hurt me."
He exhaled, fingers curling gently around hers.
"I know."
And that was all he said.
He didn't scold her. Didn't ask her not to do it again.
He just held her hand like an anchor in the dark and offered the only thing he could—
Presence.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment, she was staring at his hand over hers. The next—Darkness. Heavy. Still. Deeper than she'd let herself sink in days.
But peace didn't last.
Somewhere in the quiet hours before dawn, her body tensed. A sharp breath. A twitch. Then another.
Her legs tangled in the sheets as her mind clawed its way free of a dream that wasn't quite memory, but not quite fantasy either. Half-formed voices. Cold stone. A hand she didn't want, pulling her back under.
Malvor was awake in an instant.
Shifting closer and pressing his palm gently over her heart—Steady. Warm. Real.
Her breathing slowed. Her body softened.
By the time she stirred, sunlight had crept into the room in soft golden ribbons.
He wasn't in bed.
She sat up slowly, disoriented by the luxury of rest. Her bones felt like they remembered how to breathe again.
The shirt she wore still smelled like him.
Then she heard it, the unmistakable sound of espresso brewing, and someone humming a tune that definitely wasn't real but somehow felt aggressively proud of itself.
She padded into the kitchen.
And stopped.
There, on the counter, sat a steaming cup of her favorite mocha, perfectly made, with just the right amount of chocolate and cream.
And floating on the foam?
His face. Smirking. Somehow both cartoonishly charming and smug beyond belief.
He turned around as if on cue, flour-dusted, why flour? What was he doing? and wearing an apron that said:
"Chaos, but make it caffeinated."
"Good morning, sunshine," he said, far too pleased with himself. "I made you coffee. And a portrait. It's a selfless act, really, considering how long I stared at myself to get it right."
She blinked. "You… made latte art. Of your own face."
"I'm an artist, Annie. Suffering for my craft."
She picked up the cup and took a sip.
Her lips curled despite everything.
"You're ridiculous."
"And yet—" he pointed at her cup, "—you're drinking me. That's love."
She snorted.
Because gods help her, it was love.
And for the first time in what felt like forever—It didn't feel like something she had to perform.
It just…Was.
She took another sip, letting the warmth settle in her hands before she spoke.
"I dream that people are screaming in my head."
Malvor didn't make a sound. Didn't interrupt. He just leaned back against the counter and waited.
"The other gods," she said, voice quieter now. "Some of them are angry. Some are just… loud. Their voices, their power—it leaks into everything. I can't always tell which thoughts are mine anymore."
She looked up, eyes clouded with something older than exhaustion.
"Sometimes I wake up and I don't know if I'm still me. Or if I've just become a collection of pieces they left behind."
Malvor's smile vanished.
He stepped closer—slow, unthreatening—and gently took the mug from her hands before she could drop it.
He didn't touch her. Just stood there. A shield she hadn't asked for, but maybe needed.
"I've been in your mind," he said softly.
"And even then, I don't think I've seen all of it. But I know this—"His voice didn't waver.
"You're still in there. I see you, not them."
She swallowed hard.
"You always sound so sure," she whispered.
"That's because I am. I know who you are, Asha."
She blinked at him.
"Who am I?"
He ran a hand through his hair and muttered, "Gods, I'm probably saying this wrong." A pause.
"This would be a lot easier if I could just seduce you into forgetting the world again." He looked at her, really looked, and sighed.
"But that's not what you need. That's not what we are." And then, steadier:
"You're the girl who took a god's chaos and made it feel like home. You're the woman with fire in her veins who still chooses gentleness, when she could burn the world down."
"You're mine, before you were anyone else's. And you're not a collection of their voices. You're a symphony they'll never understand."
Her lip trembled.
"You always say the right thing."
"Only with you," he said, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead. "The rest of the Pantheon can choke."
Something shifted in her gaze—A flicker of decision. Of choice.
Her fingers curled around his wrist. Not tight. But present. Anchored. Real.