The fire had long since died, but neither of them moved.
Esmé lay half-curled on the velvet settee in the east wing of the Palazzo Rosso's library, wrapped in the lingering warmth of Luca's cloak. A candle flickered nearby, its light soft, not strong enough to chase shadows—but enough to hold them gently at bay.
Luca sat beside her, his hand resting near—but not quite touching—hers.
The silence was close. Not uncomfortable. Not restrained.
It had changed.
So had they.
She spoke first, her voice still husky with sleep. "Is this real?"
He looked at her. "You're awake. I'm here. It's real."
"I don't mean the moment," she whispered. "I mean… us."
His gaze held hers.
And for once, he didn't answer with mystery.
"I think," he said, "this is the most real thing I've known in a long time."
She sat up slowly, the cloak slipping from her shoulders. He didn't reach to catch it. He let it fall, eyes searching her face like he was memorizing it again, just in case.
She tucked her knees beneath her, facing him fully.
"I never imagined I'd find this in war," she admitted. "I didn't think I'd have space to feel anything but fear and fire."
He reached forward, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear.
"You still burn," he said softly. "But not everything you touch turns to ash."
He leaned in slightly, close enough that she could feel the coldness he carried—not unpleasant, not lifeless. Just… other. Like dusk in human form.
And she didn't pull away.
"You look at me like I'm dangerous," she said.
"You are," he replied.
"Then why are you still here?"
His voice was a whisper. "Because I've spent centuries watching the world change without ever truly feeling it. And then you came—and I stopped watching."
She leaned closer.
Close enough that their foreheads touched.
Close enough that his breath, slow and unsteady, matched hers.
"If I kiss you," she said, "I don't want it to be out of fear."
"Then don't," he murmured.
"Don't what?"
"Don't kiss me because of what you're running from. Kiss me because of what you're choosing."
So she did.
Slowly.
Softly.
No desperation. No firestorm.
Just warmth.
Like glass warming in flame—becoming something new, but never losing its shape.
His hands found her face, one curling into her braid. Hers settled on his chest, over the space where a human heart would beat. She didn't care that it didn't.
What she felt was more than enough.
They didn't speak much after.
Not out of awkwardness.
Out of understanding.
She rested against him as the night deepened. He held her like she was a memory he wasn't willing to forget.
And for once, the Veil didn't whisper.
It watched.
And stayed quiet.
————————————————————
In the morning, she woke to the sun casting long gold lines across the library floor. Luca was already dressed, leaning against the window, reading an old scroll.
But when she stirred, he turned to her, eyes lighter than she remembered.
"You stayed," she said.
"I always do."