The fire burns low now, casting lazy amber shadows on the walls. The room smells of wax, roses, and us.
We lie tangled in the wreckage of satin sheets and scattered petals, skin still humming from the storm we unleashed twice, maybe three times. I've lost count, and honestly, I don't care.
Cassian lies beside me, bare chest rising and falling slowly. His fingers trace soft circles on my waist, possessive but gentle. I rest my cheek against his shoulder, one leg draped over his. We haven't spoken in minutes. Just breathed. Just felt.
"Still think it's a dream?" I murmur, breaking the silence.
He chuckles, voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. "If it is, may I never wake up."
I smile against his skin. "You'll be sore in the morning."
"Worth every bruise."
I tilt my head up to look at him. "It's strange how this, us, can feel both new and familiar at once."
He brushes my cheek with his knuckles. "Because we've never really had the chance to just be. Not without the palace, or politics, or traitors... or my own stupidity getting in the way."
"You're not stupid," I say softly. "Just... royal and reckless."
He laughs again, this time quieter. "And you're infuriatingly honest."
I run a hand over his chest, slowly. "Cassian... I meant it earlier. About never truly leaving. I may have moved out of this chamber, but my heart didn't follow."
His breath stills, then deepens.
"I blamed you," he admits. "When you moved out. When you doubted me. It cut deeper than any sword."
"I know," I whisper. "And I blamed you too—for letting her in, for not pushing harder to stay close to me when I shut down. I was angry. I wanted you to fight harder."
He turns onto his side, facing me fully now. "I didn't know how to reach you. I didn't know if I was still allowed."
I bite my lip. "You always were. I just needed to know you chose me. Not out of duty. Not out of guilt. But with your whole heart."
Cassian reaches for my hand and presses a kiss to my wrist, where my pulse flutters. "Then let me say it plainly, Celeste. I choose you. Every time. Even in the silence. Even in the storm."
My throat tightens.
He leans forward, brushing his lips against mine again, not hungry this time, but reverent.
We lie that way for a while, nose to nose, breathing the same air.
Then his hand drifts slowly beneath the sheets again, curling over my hip, sliding along my thigh. I shiver.
"You're trouble," I whisper, feigning scold.
He smirks. "No, love. You're trouble. I'm just desperate to get lost in it again."
His mouth claims mine once more, this time softer, slower. The kind of kiss that says, I'm not going anywhere. That says, we have time. And I welcome him again, without hesitation.
And when we make love this time, it isn't urgent, it's unhurried, intentional, a sacred rhythm that binds soul to soul.
Later, our fingers remain laced together, our bodies covered only by silk and quiet promises. I rest my head on his chest again, and he pulls me closer like he's trying to memorize my shape all over again.
"We'll make this work," he says sleepily.
"We will," I whisper.
But even as my body drifts toward sleep, the last thing I think about isn't our love or our kingdom.
It's the missing diary.
And the one person I now suspect took it.
But tonight, I let it wait.
Because tonight, I am exactly where I belong.