"Am I still a disappointment?"
What the hell had she just heard?
"Just listen to me once."
Aeliana's breath caught.
Lucavion's grip tightened around her hand. It was weak, unsteady—but desperate.
His fingers trembled against her skin, cold and uncertain.
His hand slipped away, but his body still shook. A faint tremor ran through him, almost imperceptible—like a man struggling against something unseen, something deep inside himself.
Lucavion was supposed to be untouchable. He was supposed to be that grinning, infuriating, arrogant bastard. The one who tore through monsters like they were nothing. The one who fought with reckless, impossible confidence.
She liked this version of him more.
Her fingers twitched.
Before she could even think, her hand moved—almost of its own accord.
Brushed her fingertips lightly against his hair.
She pulled his head onto her lap.
A small breath left her lips.
The words slipped out naturally, before she even realized she had said them.
Lucavion didn't move.
The shaking lessened.
Aeliana didn't know how else to describe it.
It wasn't like fire—wasn't the kind of heat that burned or seared, the way her body had been devoured by pain not long ago.
It crept up her spine slowly, curling into the edges of her chest, settling somewhere deep inside her where she couldn't quite reach.
She exhaled softly, her fingers absentmindedly threading through Lucavion's hair.
She couldn't stop looking at him.
His face, usually set in that infuriating, arrogant smirk, was still. Relaxed. The sharp lines of his features had softened in unconsciousness, making him look almost—
Her lips pressed together.
That realization sent something odd through her stomach, something twisting and unfamiliar. It was stupid, it was ridiculous, but—
For the first time since meeting him, she felt a quiet, inexplicable desire.
Not to challenge him.
But to see that expression again.
It was only then that she realized—
When had she done this?
Her mind raced, trying to piece it together, but then—
A garden, filled with the soft rustling of leaves, the distant hum of birds. The scent of blooming roses lingered in the air.
A young girl lay sprawled out in the grass, head resting comfortably on her mother's lap.
"Mother… what if you never get better?"
The words had come out quietly, almost like an afterthought.
Her mother had stilled.
Warm fingers brushed through her hair, soft and careful.
"My little Aeliana…" her mother murmured, smiling down at her. "I'll be fine."
"You always say that."
Aeliana had huffed, pouting. She didn't believe her. Not really.
The warmth in her mother's lap had been enough to make her close her eyes, to let herself pretend she believed it.
To let herself want to believe it.
She had felt so safe.
Even in the distance, where her father sat reading at the garden table, stiff and unreadable as ever—
Because her mother had been there.
Because she had been warm.
Aeliana swallowed thickly as the memory faded, the feeling of her mother's hands still lingering in her mind.
Now she was in that position.
She looked down at Lucavion, at the way his breath came in slow, steady beats.
Her fingers moved again, brushing against his temple, softer this time.
A whisper, barely audible.
Aeliana barely noticed the way he twitched, the faint shift in his body as he turned onto his back. His face, usually so smug and full of teasing, was still.
His mouth was slightly parted, his brows faintly drawn together, like something weighed on him even in unconsciousness.
Not a smile. Not even neutrality.
Just… something unresolved.
She tilted her head slightly, studying him.
"What kind of life did you live, I wonder?"
Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper, spoken more to herself than him.
Lucavion was an enigma. A man who could dance with death like it was a game, who could stand before impossible odds and laugh. A man who had forced his way into her life, who had used her, tricked her, who had—
Even now, the thought unsettled her.
She still wanted answers. Still wanted to scream at him for all the things he'd done. But at the same time…
Her eyes traced the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his body still carried tension even in sleep, the way his fingers occasionally twitched against the stone.
He had burdens, didn't he?
Things he didn't say.
Things he didn't show.
Aeliana exhaled softly, and for the first time, she let herself really look at him.
And that's when she saw it.
It ran down the length of his right eye, a clean, sharp cut—too precise to be from a monster's claws, too smooth to be from an accident.
Her lips pressed together.
This scar… I wonder how you got it?
Without thinking, she reached out.
Her fingers ghosted over his cheek, barely touching at first. Then, carefully, she traced the line of the scar.
Not like the rest of his skin.
The normal parts of his face were smooth—softer than she had expected, warmer than she thought he would be. But the scar—
It was raised, slightly rigid beneath her fingertips, a texture foreign to the rest of him. Not fresh, but not fully faded either.
Old, yet not forgotten.
The skin beneath it had a certain tightness, as if it had been cut so deeply that it never fully returned to normal.
A wound meant to last.
This wasn't just some mark. It wasn't like the scrapes or bruises he earned in battle and brushed off with a smirk.
This had been intentional.
Who gave this to you?
She didn't realize how long she had been touching it until she felt him stir beneath her fingertips.
Her fingers lingered against the scar a moment longer before they drifted, sliding upward, sinking into his hair.
Softer than she expected.
For someone who fought like a monster, who moved like a phantom, his hair was… surprisingly smooth. A few strands had fallen over his face, the length slightly longer than she remembered, unruly from all the chaos they had been through.
Aeliana absently ruffled it, her fingers combing through the dark strands, pushing them away from his closed eyes.
Not much. Just the faintest movement, a small tilt of his head into her touch. His body, so tense even in unconsciousness, relaxed—just slightly, just enough to be noticeable.
The laugh escaped before she could even know it.
The laugh that didn't appear in her face for a long time.