The breeze passed through the garden with a hush, rustling the leaves like whispered promises. I sat there with Tessa, the warmth of her hand in mine grounding me more than any magic ever had.
It wasn't romantic in the conventional sense—no teasing, no stolen glances, no lingering touches meant to fluster. And yet, it was maybe the most intimate moment I'd had all day. Because Tessa didn't ask for anything. She didn't try to steal my attention or make me choose. She just stayed.
That quiet loyalty… it scared me in a way the others didn't. Not because it was threatening—but because it felt permanent. Like once she decided you mattered, that was it. You didn't get to undo it.
Eventually, she spoke again. "You've grown stronger."
The words were simple, but the meaning behind them landed deep.
"You noticed?" I asked softly.
She nodded once. "Not just your magic."
I didn't say anything. I wasn't sure I could without falling apart a little.
"Before," she said, almost idly, "you always looked like you were waiting for someone to take everything away from you."
I swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the flower bed. "And now?"
"Now," she murmured, "you look like you're ready to fight for it."
The lump in my throat grew unbearable.
"I think I'm still scared," I admitted.
"So am I," she said.
I looked at her then, really looked. Her eyes were still that striking shade of crimson, cool and sharp—but beneath that, I saw it. Vulnerability. Fear. Hope.
"We don't talk about it," I said quietly.
Tessa nodded. "We don't have to."
But I wanted to. Just a little.
"Back then," I said slowly, "when I first… woke up in this world. You knew something was wrong."
She didn't deny it.
"I didn't know if I could trust anyone," I continued. "And you didn't ask questions. You didn't push. But you knew."
"I saw you," she said simply. "And you weren't her. Not exactly."
I bit my lip. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you looked like you needed someone to let you exist without demanding an explanation."
The truth hit so hard I almost reeled.
And for a moment, I thought about leaning in. Thought about closing the distance, about kissing her the way I knew I'd kissed Lillian before. But I didn't.
Not because I didn't want to.
But because I knew that wasn't what Tessa needed from me right now.
So I just squeezed her hand tighter.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Tessa looked at me for a long moment.
Then she nodded, and the smallest smile curved at the edge of her lips—rare and beautiful and impossibly soft.
"I'll wait," she said. "No matter how long it takes."
And just like that, something settled between us.
Not a promise.
Not a confession.
But something real.
Something that would still be there, even when the garden stopped blooming.
When I returned to the dorms that evening, the sun was beginning to set, casting the walls in amber and gold. I passed Claire outside the library, arguing with a professor about noise regulations. Camille was reading beneath a tree, legs crossed, fingers absentmindedly twirling a quill as she glanced up to smirk at me from a distance. Diana passed by in the corridor, humming, the corner of her mouth lifting when our eyes met.
And Lillian?
She waited by the dorm steps, holding a small bundle of fresh-picked lilacs—pale, soft, and tied with a pink ribbon.
"For the girl who doesn't know how much she's loved," she said as she offered them.
I took them, eyes wide, chest too full.
I stared down at the lilacs in my hands, their color delicate and soft—almost like Lillian's hair when the sunlight touched it just right. The scent was subtle, not overpowering. Calming. Almost like her.
"Thank you," I said, voice barely above a whisper.
Lillian tilted her head, green eyes searching my face. "You always look like you're trying to be brave when someone gives you something."
"I'm not used to it," I admitted.
She smiled, a little sad this time. "Then we'll just have to keep giving you things until you are."
It was such a simple thing to say. No grand promises. No demands. But it broke something open in me all the same. Like she knew exactly where my cracks were and had decided she was going to fill them one quiet gesture at a time.
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak again.
She stood beside me for a while, not pushing, just letting the silence settle comfortably around us. The sunset cast golden light across her skin, and I found myself wondering how someone like her—someone so radiant—could look at someone like me and not hesitate.
"You don't have to pick anyone yet," she said suddenly, her voice softer now. "I know the others are waiting too. I just… I wanted you to know I'll keep showing up. Even if you need time."
I turned to her slowly, heart beating too fast. "You're not mad?"
Her laugh was quiet. "I'm a little mad I have to share your attention, yes. But I knew the moment I fell for you that I wasn't the only one."
I swallowed, the words catching in my throat. "You make it hard to breathe sometimes, you know that?"
She smiled wider. "Only sometimes?"
I gave her a look, which only made her laugh again—soft, musical, full of mischief and affection. She stepped closer, leaned in just slightly.
"You're glowing again," she whispered.
I felt the warmth rise to my cheeks. "I blame you."
"Good," she said, and with a brush of her fingers against mine, she stepped back.
"Goodnight, Sera."
I watched her go, her figure fading into the amber light of the hallway, her presence lingering like the scent of lilacs on my fingertips.
When I finally turned to go inside, I felt... lighter.
Not because anything was resolved.Not because the feelings were less complicated.
But because I wasn't alone in figuring them out.
That night, as I sat at my desk with the lilacs in a glass of water beside me, I found myself staring at the parchment in front of me—completely blank. My pen hovered, unmoving, and my mind spun with too much and not enough all at once.
I'd meant to write down spell formulas, something for class tomorrow. But my fingers wouldn't move. My thoughts weren't on magic or academics.
They were with her.
And with the others.
The way Claire had pouted earlier when Lillian claimed me for the partner exercise, the way Camille's teasing had quieted into something almost tender when I met her eyes, the way Diana had given me that amused yet calculating look—as if watching everything from behind a veil of amusement, but never truly missing a beat.
And Tessa.
Tessa, who said she would wait.
All of them had made it so hard to pretend this wasn't real anymore. And truthfully… I didn't want to pretend. Not with them. Not with the girl who gave me lilacs just to remind me that I was worthy of being given anything at all.
I finally picked up my pen, not to write spells—but to write a letter.
Not one I'd ever send. Just one to breathe.
"Dear Me."
"You've survived more than you expected. You've been loved more than you thought possible. And now… you're allowed to want more than survival."
"You're allowed to want kisses that make your head spin, and quiet afternoons in the garden, and hands that know how to hold you gently, even when you're afraid of breaking."
"You're allowed to love back."
I stopped, blinked rapidly as my eyes stung.
And then I set the pen down, folded the paper, and tucked it into the bottom drawer.
Just in time for a knock on my door.
Soft. Tentative.
I froze.
Another knock.
Not Diana. Too polite.
Not Claire. Too soft.
Not Camille. She'd just walk in with a dramatic flourish.
I stood and opened the door.
It was Lillian.
Again.
But this time, she looked a little less like a princess and more like a girl standing in her nightgown, her robe loosely tied, her hair brushed but free around her shoulders. Her green eyes were gentler now, without the confidence of the classroom or the elegance of the day.
Just her.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I couldn't sleep."
I hesitated. Then stepped aside. "Come in."
She smiled—small and grateful—and entered quietly, her bare feet barely making a sound on the polished floors.
She didn't ask to sit. She just curled onto the edge of my bed, knees drawn up slightly, eyes trailing over the lilacs in the glass on my desk.
"I couldn't stop thinking about earlier," she said quietly.
"Me neither."
She looked up at me, something vulnerable flickering behind her lashes. "I know you're still sorting through how you feel. I won't push you. But I… I wanted to be near you tonight. Just that."
My heart clenched.
So I walked over, sat beside her, and let the silence stretch.
Then, without really thinking, I reached out and took her hand.
Her fingers laced with mine immediately, like it was instinct.
And for a long time, we just sat like that.
No grand confessions.
No kisses under moonlight.
Just warmth. And breath. And the slow, unspoken rhythm of two people learning how to fit together without forcing the shape.
"I'm glad you came," I said.
Lillian looked over, her voice soft and sure. "I always will."
And in the hush that followed, I rested my head on her shoulder.
And I finally slept. Peacefully.
For the first time in what felt like forever.