The night after the talk, the museum was quiet.
Too quiet.
Isla should have gone home.
She’d earned it.
Instead, she found herself wandering the medieval wing alone, heels echoing on the stone.
The lights were low.
The saints watched.
Her own words from the lecture echoed in her head.
*Objects don’t get up and walk away on their own.*
Except, sometimes, they kind of did.
She stopped in front of the chalice.
The real one.
The replica sitting snugly in the Hammond’s case.
Her reflection flickered faintly in the glass.
“You okay?” she asked it.
Obviously, it didn’t answer.
But the hum under her fingertips when she rested them lightly on the case was… steady.
No spike.
No flare.
No crack-thing tasting.
She exhaled.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “For not betraying me during the talk.”
A footstep behind her made her turn.
Not heavy.
Not usher-shoe-soft.
Barefoot.
Cael padded into the gallery, hands shoved into the pockets of sweatpants this time, t-shirt hanging loose.
He looked… young, like this.
If one could call a several-century-old dragon in a Metallica shirt “young.”
“You keep walking in the dark,” he observed.
“You keep following me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
He joined her at the case.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking at the chalice like it was a neutral third party in their ongoing argument with the universe.
“You did well tonight,” he said.
She rolled her eyes.
“If one more person says that, I’m going to ascend out of sheer discomfort,” she said.
He smiled.
“You are not used to praise,” he said.
“I’m not used to… having this many eyes on me,” she said. “Saints included.”
He glanced at the tiny painted faces around them.
“They are… jealous,” he said.
She snorted.
“Of what?” she asked.
“Of you,” he said simply. “Of your… movement.”
Her chest tightened.
“Don’t make me cry in front of the reliquary,” she muttered.
He turned, leaning his hip against the case.
Studied her.
“You set… boundaries,” he said.
Her brows knit.
“What?” she asked.
“In the talk,” he said. “In the wards. In the fire drill with your humans. You say, ‘this much, no more.’ To the crack. To Leona. To… me.”
She swallowed.
“I’m trying,” she said. “I’m very bad at it.”
He shook his head.
“You are… better than you think,” he said. “You told me… later. Not now. You told Tim… yes, but not yet. You told Leona… some, not all. You told the crack-thing… stone, not city. That is… boundary.”
She hadn’t thought of it that way.
Boundaries, in her mind, had always meant fences.
Walls.
No.
Not…
Edges.
Guides.
He reached out.
Took her hand.
Turned it palm-up.
The scar on her thumb pulsed under his thumb.
“You think this is… chain,” he said softly. “Sometimes. That it drags you. That you have no say.”
She swallowed.
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
“It is also… line,” he said. “You can pull… back. You can choose… how far you walk.”
Her eyes stung.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said in a rush. “Or Tim. Or… anyone. I don’t want to drag you all into something that eats you. I keep thinking if I just… hold more… it’ll spare you.”
He huffed.
“Fool,” he said gently.
“Rude,” she sniffed.
“You cannot hold this alone,” he said. “You break. We all fall. You hold *with.* That is different.”
“With,” she echoed.
He squeezed her hand.
“Yes,” he said.
Silence settled.
The good kind.
The saints watched.
Somewhere, a cleaning cart squeaked faintly.
“You kissed me,” he said quietly.
She groaned.
“Are we back to this?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “We did not… finish the debrief.”
She glared.
“You are impossible,” she said.
He smiled.
“You like that,” he said.
She hated that he was right.
“I like…” She trailed off.
He waited.
Patient.
Annoyingly so.
She took a breath.
“I like… this,” she said finally, gesturing vaguely between them. “The way you… respect me. And push me. And annoy me. And… listen. I like the way you… look at the world. The way you learn. The way you ask for consent even when you don’t really understand it.”
His eyes softened.
“And yet,” he said, “you also like Tim.”
She flinched.
“Yes,” she said. “Differently. The same. I don’t know. It’s not… tidy.”
“Tidy hearts are boring,” he said.
She laughed, shaky.
“I’m Catholic,” she said. “We’re not big on messy.”
“You are also… witch,” he teased.
She scowled.
“Stop,” she said automatically.
He sobered.
“Isla,” he said. “You do not have to choose yet. Or… at all. Not in the way humans think of choosing. You can… love in more than one direction. It is not… betrayal. Not if you do not lie.”
Her breath caught.
“You’re okay with this?” she asked, incredulous. “With… sharing… me?”
He tilted his head.
“Do you think I have not shared a mountain with my siblings?” he asked. “Shared sky with other wings? Shared storms? Dragons are… possessive. Yes. But not… foolish. If I tried to cage you, you would bite me. And I would deserve it.”
She barked a laugh through her tears.
“Absolutely,” she said.
He smiled.
“So,” he said. “We… walk. Together. With others. We write… boundaries. We adjust. If it hurts, we… speak. If it breaks, we… mourn. But we do not… preemptively starve ourselves because we fear… fullness.”
“You make it sound so… simple,” she whispered.
“It is not,” he said. “It is… messy. Bloody. Terrifying. Fun.”
She laughed, helpless.
“Fun,” she echoed.
He grinned.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Her thumb throbbed.
She realized she was still holding his hand.
He lifted it.
Pressed his lips, very gently, to the scar.
This time, she didn’t yank away.
The jolt that shot up her arm was less painful.
More… electric.
Like a test.
Like static before rain.
“Consent?” he murmured again, wicked glint in his eyes.
She swallowed.
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed her properly then.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Like they had time.
Like he knew they didn’t and refused to rush anyway.
His mouth was warm.
Soft.
Tasted faintly of smoke and coffee and something older.
The hoard hummed in the floor.
The wards whispered in the walls.
The crack-thing prowled at the edges of the net and snarled when it hit the new lines.
Tim’s steady presence hummed somewhere in the back of her mind, not as competitor, not as consolation prize, but as another tether in the web.
She leaned in.
Let herself be kissed.
Let herself want.
Let herself be wanted.
Without apology.
Without apology yet, at least.
When she finally pulled back, breathless, his pupils were blown, his lips kiss-swollen.
“Data point,” he said hoarsely.
She laughed.
“Shut up,” she whispered.
“Make me,” he murmured.
She did.
For a little while, in a darkened gallery, under the eyes of saints and the hum of old things.
Boundaries.
They’d deal with the rest.
After.
***
End of Chapter 28.