The scent of old pages and dust was oddly comforting, the way it always had been. You hummed softly as you arranged a stack of books on the top shelf of your parents’ library shop, the sunlight spilling through the stained-glass window warming your back. The place was quiet, save for the soft crackle of fire and the occasional creak of wood. Just how you liked it—except, of course, for the empty space beside you.

Nyx.

His name still stirred something in your chest. The two of you had been inseparable once—childhood laughter echoing in the meadows, whispered secrets under the stars, the kind of friendship that rooted itself in soul and magic. Your mother and Feyre had been as close as sisters, and it only made sense that their children would follow suit.

But everything shifted the day he left for the Illyrian mountains. He had to train. Prepare. Grow into the male who would one day rule the Night Court. And he hadn’t looked back—not out of cruelty, but because it was necessary.

Still, you had waited. You told yourself it was for closure, but your heart knew better.

You were halfway through aligning a collection of old poetry volumes when the door creaked open. You didn’t bother turning around, assuming it was one of the regulars.

“You’ve been alphabetizing incorrectly this whole time, you know,” came a deep, familiar voice behind you—teasing, warm, him.

You froze. Every breath left your lungs as you turned slowly, book still in hand.

There he stood, taller than you’d remembered, broad shoulders cloaked in black leathers, wings tucked tightly behind him. The years had changed him—sculpted his face into something sharper, more commanding. But his eyes…those star-flecked violet eyes were the same.

His smile tugged at one side of his mouth, crooked and beautiful. “Hello, trouble.”