Shyla's breath lingered against Hatku's neck, warm and trembling. Their bodies pressed close, held together not just by hands or lips, but by something slower, deeper—like an ache neither of them had realized was waiting to be soothed.
Hatku's heart thudded as her fingers slid behind his neck, gentle but sure. His hands moved across the curve of her back, steadying her as if he feared she might vanish.
They kissed again. And again.
Not rushed. Not frantic.
Each time felt like they were learning each other—learning how to breathe differently, how to exist in this space where the pain of their pasts couldn't follow.
When the kiss finally broke, it wasn't from hesitation—but breathlessness.
Shyla's lips parted, her forehead resting lightly against his. Her voice was low, unsteady. "That… wasn't what I expected."
Hatku's faint smile held a strange kind of sadness. "I don't think it was supposed to happen. Not like this."
"Do you regret it?" she asked, not moving.
He shook his head. "No. That's the problem."
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The sound of the sea crashing gently against the shore filled the silence between them, and it felt sacred—like the world had paused just long enough to let them exist in it without consequence.
Eventually, Shyla pulled away just enough to look into his eyes. "We should… probably go back," she said, reluctant. "Before your sister thinks I dragged you off to drown you."
Hatku gave a soft chuckle and nodded. "Right. Drowning. That would've been way less confusing."
They turned toward the path, walking slowly, close, shoulders brushing as they moved through the moonlit sand. Neither spoke for a while, content in the quiet. But as they reached the house, Shyla's voice returned—gentle, almost hesitant.
"You never talk about your parents."
Hatku's steps faltered. He didn't answer right away.
"I mean," she added, softer, "not really. Just little pieces. Shadows."
He stared ahead, watching the flicker of candlelight in the windows of her home. "There's not much worth saying."
"I don't believe that."
Hatku exhaled slowly, a thread of tension unwinding from his chest.
"My father was… distant. Not in a cruel way, just... quiet. Always drawing. Always mapping something he never told us about." He glanced down, as if the memories were heavier than his footsteps. "We thought he was training us for battle. But I think, now, he was trying to find a way out. A way to break it all."
Shyla didn't speak—just listened.
Hatku's voice lowered. "And my mother… she used to hum. This little tune, always while she cleaned the windows. It's stupid, but I remember the way her voice sounded against the glass. Soft. Hopeful."
He paused, pain flickering behind his eyes.
"She wasn't a fighter. Not really. But they made her into one. And when she refused to fight… they turned her into something else."
Shyla's hand found his again. She squeezed it. "I'm sorry."
Hatku's fingers tightened around hers. "I left her behind. I thought she was the monster. Thought she'd killed Tashina. Everyone. But she didn't. The Universal Gods cursed her."
He looked up, jaw clenched. "And I've spent every day since trying to undo it."
Shyla stepped in front of him, placing her hands gently on his shoulders. "You're not who they wanted you to become."
Hatku blinked. "And what if I already am?"
"You wouldn't have kissed me like that if you were," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.
He swallowed, unsure what to say.
"You're still fighting for something," she continued. "Someone. That means the fire's still yours."
They stood there for a moment, breathing in the quiet together.
Eventually, they stepped into the house. The walls welcomed them with warmth, the scent of herbs and stone and sleep filling the air. Tashina was already curled up on one of the beds, hair draped across her eyes, her body still.
Shyla led Hatku down the hallway to the guest room.
She lingered in the doorway, turning back to him with a small smile. "I'll see you in the morning."
"Yeah," he said, his voice low. "Goodnight."
She hesitated. "Hatku?"
He looked at her.
"You don't have to fix everything tonight," she said. "Sometimes just resting is enough."
He gave a tired smile. "I'll try to remember that."
Shyla nodded once and stepped back, the shadows swallowing her silhouette as she vanished toward her own room.
Hatku turned to the bed and sat down, rubbing his hands over his face.
Outside, the waves whispered to the shore. The sea always returned, no matter how far it went.
He lay back against the pillow. For the first time in days, his body eased into the mattress instead of lying alert.
And in the dark, he didn't dream of flames or blood.
He dreamed of a woman humming behind a sunlit window.