Next day went very hastily.
I whole daydreamed of lira's charm and her body. After finishing mine work I quickly went to her.
The rain began before I reached her door.
It came like whispered applause against the stone corridors of the dormitory, soft but steady, each drop sliding down the glass lanterns that lined the walls. My cloak was heavy with water, my thoughts heavier still. I'd meant to stay in my room, to wait for morning—but something in me, quiet and persistent, kept drawing me to her.
Lira.
The hallway curved toward her room, dim lamps flickering. I paused outside her door, listening. The rain tapped like a metronome. Inside, faint music played—her lyra, the same gentle tune she always practiced when she couldn't sleep. I hesitated a moment longer before knocking.
The sound stopped.
Then her voice, muffled but clear: "Arin? Is that you?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Yeah. Sorry—it's late."
The door opened. Warm light spilled into the corridor, gold against the cold gray of the rain. She stood barefoot, wrapped in a loose cardigan, her hair undone and falling past her shoulders. The lamplight turned it bronze.
"You're soaked," she said softly. "Come in before you catch something."
I stepped inside. Her room was small but alive—plants along the sill, books stacked like towers on her desk, a faint scent of jasmine and candle wax in the air. The rain drummed steadily against the windows, filling the silence that lingered between us.
She took my cloak and hung it by the fire.
Then she turned, folding her arms. "What brings you here, Arin?"
Her tone wasn't accusing—more curious, touched by concern.
I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd… check on you."
Her expression softened. "You always say that when something's eating at you."
I gave a half-smile. "You know me too well."
"Someone has to." She sat on the edge of the couch, motioning for me to join.
I did, the old cushions sinking beneath our weight. The fire crackled, throwing little halos of orange light that danced across her face. For a while, neither of us spoke. We just listened—to the fire, the rain, the quiet rhythm of two hearts adjusting to the same silence.
Finally, she broke it.
"You've been distant lately. Since the trial."
I looked down at my hands. The words stuck in my throat. The memory of the trial still burned behind my eyes—magic spiraling out of control, the council's judgment, the weight of almost losing everything.
"I didn't want to drag you into that mess," I said quietly.
"You already did," she replied, not unkindly. "And I stayed."
The way she said it made my chest tighten. There was no anger in her tone, just truth.
The fire popped. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You always think you have to carry everything alone, Arin. You don't."
I looked up at her then—really looked. The glow from the fireplace traced soft shadows along her cheek, the small line of worry between her brows, the tired warmth in her eyes.
"I know," I said. "But knowing doesn't make it easier."
She smiled faintly. "Then let me make it easier."
Before I could reply, she reached out—tentative at first—then placed her hand over mine. Warmth flooded through me, subtle but real. Not magic, just her.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The world outside could have fallen away and I wouldn't have noticed.
When she finally drew her hand back, she did so slowly, as though reluctant to break the connection. "You're shaking," she murmured. "You really shouldn't be out in this weather."
"I'll be fine."
"Sit still."
She rose and fetched a towel, pressing it to my hair with gentle insistence. "You're hopeless," she whispered, half laughing, half scolding.
"Maybe," I said. "But you're here, so I must be doing something right."
That made her laugh—a soft, honest sound that reached her eyes. "Flattery? At this hour?"
"It's all I've got left."
She set the towel aside, shaking her head, still smiling. For a moment, her gaze lingered on mine. It wasn't the kind of look that burned—it soothed.
"I used to hate storms," she said after a while. "When I was little. The sound always made me think something terrible was coming."
"What changed?"
"You."
The word slipped out so naturally it stunned me. I wasn't sure she realized she'd said it until she looked away, a flush coloring her cheeks.
"You make the noise feel less lonely," she added quickly.
Something in me gave way. All the walls I'd built around my heart these past weeks—one by one, they cracked.
"Lira," I said, my voice quieter than I intended. "You don't have to fill the silence for me."
"I'm not." She turned back to me, eyes shimmering with reflected light. "I just don't like seeing you drown in it."
I wanted to tell her everything then. About the fear, the guilt, the weight of power I barely controlled. But the words refused to form. Instead, I just looked at her—at the calm strength she carried so effortlessly—and somehow, that was enough.
She shifted closer, pulling the blanket from the couch and draping it around us both. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and smoke. Her shoulder brushed mine, a small, electric point of contact.
"You can stay till morning," she said softly. "If you want."
"Wouldn't want to impose."
"You already have," she teased, her tone light again.
I smiled. "Fair point."
She leaned back, resting her head against the couch. The lamplight flickered lower, until only the fire remained. Outside, thunder rolled far in the distance, soft as a heartbeat.
I approached her and we kissed .
She was so close , I can imagine her whole body against me. Her smell is so sweet.
It was a feeling I never felt before. I feel going deep inside lira .
After a while, she began to hum again—the same melody I'd heard through the door. I closed my eyes and listened. The tune was simple but full of longing, each note like a thread stitching the quiet together.
When I opened my eyes again, she'd stopped humming. She was watching me with a look I couldn't quite name—part wonder, part fear, part something deeper.
"What?" I asked, half smiling.
"Nothing," she said. "Just… you look peaceful. That's rare."
"Only because of you."
The words escaped before I could stop them. But I didn't regret them.
Her gaze softened. "Then maybe you should come by more often."
"Maybe I will."
Another silence fell, but this one wasn't heavy. It was warm, filled with things we didn't need to say.
At some point, she leaned her head on my shoulder. I felt her hair against my neck, soft and cool from the rain. I hesitated for a heartbeat, then rested my hand lightly over hers. She didn't pull away.
Minutes—or hours—passed like that. The fire dwindled, the storm faded into a quiet drizzle, and all that remained was the rhythm of our breathing.
When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Arin… do you ever think about what comes next? After all this?"
"Every day," I said. "But I never know what to picture."
"Maybe it doesn't matter," she murmured. "Maybe what matters is this. Right now."
I turned slightly, enough to see her face. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips curved into the faintest smile.
"You always find a way to make chaos sound simple," I said.
"That's because it is simple," she replied, her voice fading as sleep crept in. "You just have to stop fighting it."
I didn't answer. There was nothing left to say. I just watched her for a long time, the rise and fall of her breathing, the small, peaceful smile that lingered even in dreams.
At some point, I must have drifted off too, because the next thing I knew, dawn was breaking through the rain-streaked windows. Pale light filled the room, touching everything it could reach—the scattered books, the extinguished candles, the blanket still draped around us both.
Lira stirred, eyes fluttering open. "Morning?" she whispered.
"Looks like it."
She smiled sleepily. "You stayed."
"I didn't mean to," I said, though neither of us believed it.
Her hand brushed mine, a simple, wordless thank you.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The world smelled new.
For the first time in weeks, I felt something I hadn't dared to hope for—peace. Not the kind you earn, but the kind someone gives you just by being near.
Lira sat up, stretching, her hair falling over her shoulders in golden waves. "Coffee?"
"Always," I said, smiling.
She grinned and stood, padding barefoot toward the small kitchen corner. The light followed her, soft and golden, turning the rainwater on the glass into tiny mirrors.
I sat there watching her move through the morning—graceful, unhurried, completely unaware that she'd just rewired my world.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the steady thrum of my heart, I knew: this was the beginning of something that could change everything.