That night they closed the waystation early. The yard was quiet; even the dogs kept close. The moon hung low and pale.
On the porch, Tristan rested his violin on his knee but didn't play. Shannon sat beside him, shoulders touching. For once, the silence between them felt heavy with time they might not have.
"I keep thinking of Blackthorn," Tristan said at last. "How fast it changed when the curse lifted. We could not lift this with a song."
"No," Shannon said. "But we can keep each other through it."
Tristan stared at his hands. "I've wasted years before. In the dark. In work that meant nothing. If the fever comes hard, I don't want to spend one more day pretending I don't know what I want."
Shannon turned, the porch light catching in his frost-blue eyes. "Say it."
Tristan met his gaze. "You. I want a life with you. Not later. Now."
Shannon's answer was simple. "Then marry me."
