The library lights went out in sections, one row at a time, until only the exit lamps remained.
Lyra waited.
She pretended to reread the same paragraph, eyes skimming words she no longer absorbed, listening as chairs scraped back and footsteps faded. When the doors finally closed behind the last student, the quiet that followed felt heavier than silence should.
She packed her bag slowly.
Every instinct told her to leave campus and go back to her dorm. To keep her head down. To keep pretending nothing strange was happening.
Instead, she walked toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the grounds.
The path was damp from earlier rain, the scent of wet soil rising as she stepped off the main walkway. At night, the university felt stripped of its performance—less welcoming, more honest. Buildings loomed instead of inviting. Shadows lingered where they didn't belong.
Halfway there, Lyra slowed.
She could still turn back.
She didn't.
The greenhouse door resisted slightly before opening with a soft creak. Warmth greeted her, thick with the smell of earth and aging glass. Moonlight filtered through the panels above, fractured and pale.
Kael stood inside.
Not waiting by the door. Not pacing.
Standing still, near the center, as though he'd chosen the exact spot for a reason.
His coat was gone, sleeves rolled up, dark hair falling loosely across his forehead. He looked tired—not the kind sleep fixed, but the kind that came from holding something in for too long.
"You came," he said.
"You told me to," Lyra replied.
Her voice surprised her. Steady. Grounded.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward. It felt deliberate. Like a pause before something irreversible.
"I need to be clear before I say anything else," Kael said finally. "Once I start, I don't know how to stop halfway."
Lyra tightened her grip on her bag strap. "I didn't come here for half-truths."
That earned her a long look. Measuring. Almost… relieved.
"Good," he said quietly. "Because I don't know how to lie to you anymore."
The words settled between them, heavier than a confession should have been. Lyra's chest tightened—not with fear, but with a strange sense of being seen.
"People are watching you," Kael continued. "Not because of anything you've done. But because of what you are to me."
She frowned. "And what exactly am I to you?"
His jaw flexed.
"That's the problem," he admitted. "I don't have a name for it yet. But I do know this—keeping my distance didn't protect you. It made you visible."
Lyra crossed her arms, grounding herself. "So what's your solution?"
He took a step closer. Slow. Intentional. He stopped well before invading her space, but the air between them tightened all the same.
"I stop pretending you're not connected to me," he said. "I protect you openly."
"And that means?" she pressed.
"It means my world notices you."
Her pulse quickened. "Your world doesn't sound friendly."
"It isn't," he said without hesitation. "Not to people like you."
The honesty startled her more than reassurance would have.
"Then why me?" Lyra asked.
The question wasn't angry. It wasn't hopeful. It was real.
Kael looked at her like the answer cost something.
"Because you don't look at me like I'm something to be survived," he said. "And because when you write, you remind me what it feels like to be… human."
Her throat tightened.
"You don't act human," she said softly. "You disappear. You move differently. You notice things before they happen."
His expression hardened—not defensive. Resigned.
"That's because I've had a long time to learn," he said.
"How long?" she asked.
He hesitated.
Then—quietly—"Centuries."
The word echoed.
Lyra didn't step back. She didn't raise her voice.
She simply said, "You're not human."
Kael closed his eyes.
"No," he admitted. "I'm not."
Her heart pounded, but not with panic. With understanding clicking into place.
"What are you?" she asked.
Before he could answer, gravel crunched outside the greenhouse.
Kael's posture changed instantly. Every line of him sharpened, attention snapping outward like a pulled blade.
"Stay behind me," he said, voice low and urgent.
Lyra obeyed without thinking.
A shadow passed across the glass. Then another.
Kael swore under his breath.
This was the moment.
Control—or protection.
He turned back to her, eyes dark and intent. "I wanted time," he said. "I wanted to explain this carefully. But they've taken that choice from me."
"Kael—"
"If you stay," he said, cutting her off gently, "you stay knowing I won't always soften the truth. And if you leave—"
"I won't," Lyra said.
The certainty in her own voice surprised her.
She met his gaze, fear and resolve tangled together. "I'm scared. But I won't be handled like something fragile."
Something in Kael fractured. Not violently. Quietly.
"Then listen," he said. "And don't look away."
He shifted slightly.
Lyra's eyes flicked to the glass behind him.
There was no reflection.
Her breath caught.
The world didn't shatter.
It tilted—slowly, dangerously—toward a truth she could no longer pretend not to see.