Warm sunlight filtered through the blinds.
Morning.
Real morning.
Soft, pale light warming the edge of the cot, slipping over my legs and arms, brushing my cheek until my eyelashes fluttered on instinct.
I blinked.
There was no dizziness.
No violent heat spike.
No sensation of drowning in my own body.
Just warmth.
Gentle warmth.
I inhaled deeply.
My chest expanded fully, cleanly, without pain.
I exhaled.
My body didn't shake.
My pulse didn't skip.
My skin didn't burn.
For the first time since the collapse—
I felt like myself.
Still tired.
Still sore.
Still fragile.
But me.
I shifted slightly.
And the moment I did, an arm around my waist tightened—instinctive, protective, immediate.
Horace.
I felt him before I fully saw him.
His scent—warm, sharp, grounding—brushed over my senses softly, like he'd instinctively lowered it so I wouldn't feel overwhelmed.
I turned my head, cheek brushing the firm muscle of his shoulder.
He was awake.
He was watching me.
He had been watching me.
"Good morning," he murmured, voice low and soft, thick with exhaustion he hadn't allowed himself to show earlier.
I swallowed, my throat still rough.
"…how long…?"
"Not long," he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face.
"You only slept a few hours."
A small frown tugged at my lips.
"You're still awake."
His brows drew together—guilty, stubborn.
"…I didn't want to miss anything."
I looked up at him—really looked.
His eyes were bloodshot at the corners.
His hair was messy, pushed back where he'd run his hands through it too many times.
His shoulders were stiff.
His voice fragile around the edges.
But his arms—
His arms were steady.
Holding me exactly where I was.
Protecting me even now.
I rested my palm lightly on his chest.
"You need sleep too," I whispered.
Horace didn't answer with words.
Instead, he lowered his forehead to mine.
And breathed.
Slow.
Deep.
Relieved.
"You scared me," he said quietly.
"So much that even now… I still feel it."
My breath caught.
"I heard you," I whispered before I could stop myself.
"What you said last night."
Horace froze.
His eyes widened just enough—
Then softened.
Deeply.
Painfully.
Honestly.
"You weren't supposed to hear that," he murmured.
"It wasn't fair to say while you were half-conscious."
"Did you mean it?" I whispered.
Silence.
Then—
Horace lifted my hand to his lips.
Pressed a slow, warm kiss to my knuckles.
"Yes."
A soft noise escaped me.
Something warm spiraled in my stomach, low and sweet.
But before I could speak—
Another warm presence leaned close.
ROWAN AWAKES — AND HE HEARD EVERYTHING
"Elle…?"
Rowan's voice was soft, shaky.
I turned my head slightly.
He sat at my other side, arms pulled around his knees, blanket draped loosely over his shoulders.
His eyes—
still red-rimmed from crying—
softened when they met mine.
"You're awake," he whispered in relief.
"Really awake."
I nodded gently.
"How… how are you feeling?"
He swallowed.
The blanket slipped down his shoulder a little, revealing a faint bruise on his collarbone.
"I'm okay," Rowan whispered.
"I'm just… glad you're not hurting anymore."
He leaned closer, as if drawn in without thinking—
and I reached out, brushing my fingers against his.
He inhaled sharply.
Then, in a tiny voice:
"I… also heard what Horace said."
Horace stiffened behind me.
Rowan kept his gaze on our intertwined fingers, cheeks reddening.
"Elleanore…
when I thought you died…
something cracked inside me."
His voice wavered.
"I don't know what this is.
But I… I know I can't lose you either."
Horace didn't interrupt.
He didn't pull away or defend himself.
He let Rowan speak.
Rowan continued softly:
"I want…
I want to stay with you too."
My breath trembled.
Warmth wrapped around my heart.
Which made the next part hit even harder—
Chandler's voice came from behind Rowan, low and steady:
"You two aren't the only ones."
CHANDLER — FINALLY HONEST
Chandler rose slightly from his chair, stepping close enough that Rowan instinctively leaned into his side.
He rested a hand on Rowan's shoulder—
but his eyes were on me.
"I'm not good at this," Chandler admitted quietly.
"I don't say things the way Horace does.
Or feel things as loudly as Rowan does."
Horace shot him a half-annoyed, half-protective look.
Rowan nudged Chandler's hand with silent encouragement.
Chandler continued:
"But when the room collapsed…
when Rowan felt you disappear…
when Horace broke that door…"
He shook his head once,
"I knew I wasn't walking out of that corridor without you."
His gaze dropped—
rare vulnerability cracking through the calm.
"And that scared me more than anything else."
He looked at me again.
"Whatever this is—
whatever you want—
I'm here.
Not because of your heat.
Not because of instinct."
His voice softened.
"But because I choose to be."
Rowan's breath hitched softly beside him.
I swallowed, overwhelmed.
Three boys.
Three confessions.
All different.
All honest.
All unguarded.
My heart felt too full.
"I…"
My voice trembled.
"I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything," Horace murmured against my ear.
"Just tell us how you feel."
I dropped my gaze.
Tears wavered at the edge of my lashes.
"I feel… warm."
Horace smiled softly.
Rowan laughed under his breath—relieved, emotional.
Chandler exhaled slowly.
And I added, voice barely above a whisper:
"And safe."
That stopped all three of them.
Horace's fingers curled gently at my waist.
Rowan's hand tightened around mine.
Chandler rested his hand on my shoulder.
None of them spoke.
Not yet.
Because the air shifted—
warmer,
thicker,
charged—
not with fear
but something intimate.
Something that made my skin heat slowly
pleasantly
not painfully.
Rowan noticed first.
He swallowed, cheeks burning.
"Elleanore…
your scent is…"
Chandler cleared his throat, expression deepening.
"It's changing."
Horace inhaled slowly—
eyes darkening.
"Elle," he murmured softly,
"You don't feel dizzy, do you?"
I shook my head.
"No…
just warm."
Rowan's breath trembled.
Horace brushed his nose gently against my temple—
the lightest touch.
"Warm is okay," he whispered.
"As long as it doesn't hurt."
I inhaled—
and felt the warmth deepen.
Slow.
Heavy.
Pleasant.
My fingers curled into Horace's shirt.
He let out a soft, controlled breath.
"Elle…"
Rowan leaned closer, breath brushing my arm.
Chandler watched, jaw tense but eyes gentle.
Lucian, sensing the shift, discreetly stepped out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
And in the quiet he left behind—
three boys reached toward me
not with urgency
not with instinct
but with wanting.
Soft.
Humans.
Real.
The kind that asked,
without speaking:
Is this okay?
I breathed out slowly, warmth curling in my chest.
"Yes."
The Moment That Changes Everything
The warmth changed.
Not the wild, painful heat from before.
Not the feverish panic that tore through my body in the chamber.
This heat was slower.
Smoother.
Almost… melodic.
My breath slipped out softly as Horace lowered his forehead to mine, his thumb brushing the corner of my lips with a gentleness that made my chest tighten.
"Elleanore…" he whispered, voice low and warm, "tell me if anything feels wrong… or if you want me to stop."
My fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
"I… don't want you to stop."
Something in him broke—
in the quietest, softest way.
His breath hitched. His hand trembled.
And then, slowly, he leaned in.
His lips touched mine.
Not forceful.
Not urgent.
Just warm.
Soft.
Certain.
The kind of kiss that felt like a promise.
A breath caught in my throat—
and Horace pulled me closer, deepening it just slightly, letting the warmth bloom between us.
My hands slid up into his hair—
and that small touch caused him to exhale shakily against my mouth.
"Elle… you're going to ruin me…"
His voice vibrated against my lips.
I didn't have time to answer—
because another warm presence leaned close beside us.
Rowan.
His breath brushed my cheek as if asking permission without words.
Tentative.
Trembling.
Horace didn't pull away.
He shifted—
keeping me close—
so Rowan could come nearer.
Rowan's fingers brushed my jaw first.
Soft.
Feather-light.
As if he thought I would break.
"Elleanore…"
His whisper trembled.
"Can I…?"
I turned my head slightly, my forehead brushing his.
"Yes."
It was all he needed.
Rowan kissed me with a different softness—
fragile, lingering, full of relief and ache.
His lips trembled as if he still couldn't believe I was alive, warm, and here.
Horace's breath deepened beside us—
but not in jealousy.
In something like acceptance.
Like awe.
Rowan pulled back just enough to breathe, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with emotion.
Then—
a warm, steady hand slid along my back.
Chandler.
He didn't rush.
He didn't crowd.
He moved like he was made of gravity—
a slow pull that brought me against the breadth of his chest, his presence grounding both Rowan and me.
His voice came low, near my ear.
"You're sure you want this?"
Not an order.
Not a demand.
A question.
A line he refused to cross without permission.
I swallowed, leaning back slightly into him.
"Yes."
His hand tightened in the faintest, gentlest grip—
a controlled exhale leaving him.
Horace looked at him over my shoulder.
Rowan looked too.
No words passed between them.
But something settled.
Something like understanding.
Something like:
We're doing this together.
Horace slid a hand behind my neck, thumb stroking the edge of my jaw.
Rowan leaned in again, brushing his forehead to mine.
Chandler's chest pressed against my back, warm and steady.
Heat curled low inside me, sweet and aching.
Horace kissed me again—
deeper this time.
Slower.
His lips warm, guiding mine until my breath stuttered in my throat.
Rowan nuzzled tenderly against the side of my neck, breath shaking.
"You're so warm…" he whispered.
"I can feel your heartbeat…"
His lips brushed the edge of my jaw.
Barely.
My fingers tightened on the sheets.
And Chandler's hand slid along my waist—
slow, steady, asking with pressure rather than words—
Can I pull you closer?
I answered by leaning back into him.
He exhaled roughly against my shoulder.
Horace lifted his lips from mine with a soft gasp, brushing my hair back.
"Elle… if we keep going…"
his voice dropped, thick and rough,
"I… won't be able to stop."
Rowan swallowed hard.
"Me either…"
Chandler's breath warmed the side of my neck.
"And you deserve more than someone losing control."
My voice trembled.
"I trust all of you."
The air went still.
Horace closed his eyes—
as if the words hit him too deeply to bear.
Rowan's fingers curled around mine.
Chandler lowered his forehead to the back of my shoulder, tension leaving his body in a single, quiet exhale.
Their scents—
warm cedar, sharp musk, soft citrus—
wrapped around me until my pulse fluttered.
Horace kissed me again—
not slow this time.
Not cautious.
Hungry.
Careful hands guided my jaw, my hips, my waist—
not pushing,
not taking,
just urging me closer.
Rowan pressed to my side, fingers exploring the curve of my shoulder, the line of my collarbone—never lower, never rushing, just learning me.
Chandler's arm wrapped around my torso, pulling me back into him as if my warmth steadied him.
Three bodies, one heat.
Three breaths, each trembling for the same reason.
Their lips brushed my skin—
my jaw,
my cheek,
my shoulder—
never crossing lines,
but coming beautifully close.
Horace whispered against my mouth:
"Tell us if you need to stop."
"I won't stop unless you ask," Rowan murmured.
"I'll hold you steady," Chandler added,
"no matter what you choose."
My breath shakily escaped.
And I whispered the words that tipped everything:
"I don't want to stop."
Rowan whimpered.
Horace swore under his breath.
Chandler's hand tightened at my hip.
The world narrowed—
to warmth,
to breath,
to touch,
to the quiet sound of lips meeting mine again and again.
Bodies shifted around me—
not explicit,
not described,
but close.
Closer.
Warm pressure, soft sighs, trembling hands.
Horace kissed me until I forgot the cold of the chamber.
Rowan touched my cheek like I was something he could finally hold without fear.
Chandler steadied my waist, heat rolling off him in slow, deep waves.
And when the three of them leaned in at once—
their warmth surrounding me,
their lips brushing my skin,
their breath trembling with wanting—
I felt something inside me melt entirely.
The room dimmed.
Their scents deepened.
The heat rose—
slow, consuming, sweet—
and the rest blurred into touch and warmth and soft, breathless quiet.
Then—
the lights faded.
And the world with them.