Ari's POV
The body I wore still smelled faintly of the stream—of wild water and moss and the faintest trace of moonflowers. My skin still hummed from the earlier conversation, from Therrin's trembling honesty and my own rising desire to protect her. To love her in the ways she cannot yet love herself.
Now, though, she was quiet.
Not gone. Just… resting. Tired, maybe. Or maybe giving me space. We didn't often trade places like this, not fully. But something about tonight—about Dion's presence, about the vulnerability she showed me—opened a door. So I stepped through.
I walked barefoot through the clearing toward where I knew he'd be. The sky was quilted with dark clouds, the moon peeking in and out like it, too, was eavesdropping.
I found him standing by the edge of the glade. Shirtless. As usual.
His back was to me, muscles tense, shoulders rising with every slow breath. He was staring at nothing. Or everything.
"Dion," I said softly, voice more Therrin's than mine. But not quite hers either.
He turned. His eyes were storm-dark, the color of dusk before the thunder breaks.
"Ari."
There was no question in his voice. He knew. Just like always.
"You felt it," I said, stepping closer. "Earlier. Our minds—"
"—clashing like blades," he murmured. "Like the sky split open."
I nodded. "It wasn't just a fight. It was… survival. She wanted to hold on. So did I."
"And you both nearly broke," he whispered.
His voice cracked on the word both. I saw it then—the ache in him. The helplessness of loving someone fractured by nature, and still seeing her as whole.
"I thought I lost you both," he admitted, stepping closer. "For a second I felt… nothing. And that scared me more than the shadows."
I reached for his hand. It felt right. His fingers trembled just slightly as I threaded mine through.
"You won't lose us," I whispered.
"But you're two people," he said, voice low. "And I only have one heart."
"Then learn to stretch it," I said with a soft smile.
He looked at me for a long moment. The shadows around us didn't move. Time didn't rush forward. Everything was still. Waiting.
"She's scared of closeness," I added. "Scared of being seen. Of wanting."
"I know."
"No," I said gently. "You think you know. But you don't feel it the way I do. Her fear isn't just of you hurting her—it's of her needing you. Of losing control. Of becoming."
His jaw flexed. "I would never—"
"I know," I said, lifting his hand to my lips. "But fear doesn't listen to reason. And Therrin? She's never been allowed to trust anyone long enough to unfold."
I could feel him exhale. Deeply. The kind of breath that carries sorrow.
"I want to help her," he said, voice hoarse. "And you. But I don't want to push. Or pull. I don't want either of you to think this is something I expect."
I brushed my lips over his knuckles. "Then let me help her. Let me show her how it feels to be held without question. To want without shame."
Dion stepped closer. His free hand brushed a strand of hair from my cheek.
"Do you want me, Ari?"
The question should've made me flinch. It didn't.
"I want everything you are," I said. "I want your strength and your softness. I want the way you watch her. The way you ache. The way you wait. I want to wrap that patience around her like a cloak."
He swallowed hard, and the hand that had brushed my hair now lingered at my cheek. Thumb tracing. Reverent.
"I want you too," he whispered.
And it wasn't lust when he said it. It wasn't a need to possess or consume. It was worship. A slow unraveling of all his restraint.
I leaned forward, resting my forehead against his chest. His skin was warm. His heartbeat thundered under my ear. Familiar. Comforting.
"I'll give her time," he said. "I'll give you both time."
"Thank you."
We stood like that, quiet, the wind rustling through the trees like it was whispering secrets just for us. I knew I couldn't stay in control much longer. Therrin was stirring again, gently, not urgently. And I wanted her to feel this closeness. To remember that it was safe.
"Dion," I said, eyes closed. "When she comes back, don't push. But don't step away either. She needs your steadiness more than you realize."
He nodded. "I'll be there. Even if she never says the words. Even if she never reaches out."
"She will," I whispered. "One day. She'll come to you."
I started to pull back.
"Ari—wait," he said suddenly.
I looked up.
He kissed my forehead. A soft, soul-deep press of lips that held no expectation. Only devotion.
"For both of you," he murmured. "Always."
And with that, I faded, gently handing the reins back to her.
Back to Therrin.