Kaelen’s POV

I stood outside her locked door for a few minutes.

The hallway was empty. Quiet. Just me and the takeout bag in my hand and the faint howling of the winter wind outside. The container was still warm against my palm—mushroom risotto from the place on Thornberry Street. The one she used to love.

Used to.

Years were a long time. People changed. Tastes changed. Everything changed.

I stared at the polished wood. My keycard sat heavy in my jacket pocket. Behind this door, she was either asleep or pretending to be. Both options carved something raw inside my chest.

I swiped the card.

The heavy lock clicked. I pushed the door open.

The suite was dim. Curtains drawn. The only light came from the bathroom—a thin golden strip beneath the closed door. No. Wait. The bathroom was dark too. The light was from the hallway behind me, spilling in like an intrusion.

She was on the bed. Curled on her side, spine to me, knees drawn up. The blanket pulled tight around her shoulders like armor. Her silver-white hair fanned across the pillow—tangled, unwashed.

She didn’t move.

"Ela."

Nothing. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. As if I hadn’t spoken at all.

I set the bag on the table near the window. Pulled out the container. Lifted the lid so the smell would fill the room—garlic, herbs, melted parmesan.

"I brought dinner. Mushroom risotto."

Silence.

I stood there. Hands at my sides. The scent of the food mixing with the stale air of a room that hadn’t been properly opened in days. She hadn’t touched the lunch I’d left either. The sandwich sat on the desk, untouched, its edges curling.

"You need to eat."

Her voice came flat. Dead. Like something scraped across stone.

"Unlock the door."

My throat tightened. "Ela—"

"You say you care. You bring food. You hover." A pause. Then, quieter: "But the door stays locked. So this is a prison. And you are the warden. Stop pretending otherwise."

The words landed like blows. Precise. Calculated to wound.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. What could I say? That I couldn’t let her go because the thought of her disappearing again made something inside me crack open and howl? That if I unlocked that door she would vanish before dawn and I’d spend years tearing the world apart looking for her?

"I can’t," I said. "You know I can’t."

She said nothing more.

I stood there for another minute. Then I left.

---

The days blurred together.

Days later, I brought fresh croissants and a cinnamon roll from the bakery near the square. The kind with extra icing. The kind she used to steal off my plate when she thought I wasn’t looking.

I set them on the bedside table while she was in the bathroom. The shower ran for a long while. Steam curled under the door. I waited in the armchair by the window, staring at the grey sky beyond the curtains.

When she emerged, wrapped in the guest robe, her eyes passed over me like I was furniture.

"I don’t like being watched," she said.

I left.

The following day, the same. Croissants. Silence. Her back turned to me whenever I entered.

The day after that, I found the croissants in the trash. Untouched.

At night, I slept on the sofa. Or tried to. The leather was too short for my frame, my legs hanging off the edge, my neck kinked at an uncomfortable angle. But I couldn’t leave. Couldn’t bring myself to go back to the estate and sleep in a proper bed while she was here.

So I lay in the dark and listened.

Some nights she cried.

Quiet, suppressed sounds. The kind that came from pressing your face into a pillow so no one would hear. But I heard. Every muffled sob landed in my chest like a blade twisting.

Other nights she whispered. Prayers, maybe. Or just words spoken into the void. I couldn’t make them out. Didn’t try. Because if I moved, if I went to her, if I touched her—

I wouldn’t stop.

I knew that about myself now. Knew the thing inside me that strained against its leash every time I smelled her. The beast that wanted to gather her up and press her against me and make her remember what we were. What we’d been.

So I stayed on the sofa. And I hated myself.

---

Late at night.

The study was cold. I hadn’t bothered lighting the hearth. Papers spread across the desk—reports, troop movements, border intelligence. None of it made sense. The words swam before my eyes, meaningless black marks on white.

I poured another brandy. The bottle was half-empty already.

"You look like hell."

I didn’t turn. Sir Cassian’s reflection appeared in the dark window glass—tall, broad-shouldered, arms crossed. He leaned against the doorframe with the casual posture of someone who’d seen me at my worst more times than either of us cared to count.

"Thank you for that assessment," I said.

He crossed the room. Pulled out the chair across from mine and dropped into it without invitation. His sharp eyes swept over me—the loosened collar, the shadows I knew carved my face, the amber liquid I was nursing.

"How many days has it been?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters because you look like you haven’t slept since you brought her here. And from what the guards tell me, she hasn’t eaten anything substantial either."

I drank. Said nothing.

"This can’t go on," he said. Blunt. Direct. The way only he could be with me. "You’re falling apart. She’s falling apart. And you’re both too stubborn to—"

"What would you have me do?" The words came sharper than I intended. "Let her go? Watch her disappear into another fighting pit? Find her in months half-dead in some alley?"

"I’d have you talk to her. Actually talk. Not deliver meals like a servant and retreat."

"She won’t—"

"Then make her." He leaned forward. His voice dropped. "Or let your love rekindle itself. However that needs to happen. But this—" He gestured at me. At the bottle. At the dark room. "This is a slow death for both of you."

I stared at the brandy in my glass. The amber caught what little light existed and turned it into something golden. Warm.

Nothing about this was warm.

"Go home," I said.

Cassian studied me for a long moment. Then he stood. At the door, he paused.

"Don’t wait until there’s nothing left to save."

Then he was gone.

---

The tavern was loud. Overcrowded. Exactly what I needed.

I found a stool at the far end of the bar and ordered whiskey. The bartender—young, friendly, with an easy smile—poured generously without asking questions.

I drank. One glass. Two. Three.

The noise washed over me like a wave. Laughter. Shouting. The crack of billiard balls. Someone’s terrible singing from the back corner. It drowned out the voice in my head. The one that kept repeating: you did this. You did this to her.

"Hey." The bartender leaned across the counter, wiping a glass. Concern creased his brow. "You alright? You’ve had quite a few. You shouldn’t drive your carriage in this state."

"I’m fine."

"You sure? Because—"

"I said I’m fine."

He held up both hands. Backed off.

I drank until the edges of the world went soft. Until her face stopped appearing every time I closed my eyes. Until I couldn’t taste the guilt anymore.

Then I paid. Stood. The floor tilted.

I made it to the carriage somehow. Made it back to the lodgings. The hallway was too long, too bright. The walls kept shifting.

The keycard slipped from my fingers. Twice.

I braced one hand against the doorframe. Tried again. The runic lock glowed green.

I stumbled inside.

"Ela..."

Her name came out slurred. Thick. Wrong.

The suite was pitch-dark. I blinked. Waited for my eyes to adjust.

The bed. She was there. The small shape of her beneath the covers.

I walked to the bed. Swaying. Stood there looking down at her.

Then I saw it.

She was shaking.

Her entire body was trembling beneath the blanket. Small, violent shudders that made the fabric ripple like water.