The wind still clings to your skin, the buzz of adrenaline not quite faded as the thrum of the flight settles in your bones. From the moment your boots touched the landing platform, the world blurred into soundless stillness—except for him.

Xaden’s dark eyes flick to you, unreadable as always, but something smolders just beneath. Sgaeyl’s shadow looms for a second over the courtyard as she peels off into the clouds, and your heartbeat stutters—not from fear, but the memory of what it feels like to fly beside him. To be beside him.

“You good?” he asks, his voice low and laced with something he doesn’t say aloud. He doesn’t wait for the answer—not really. His hand brushes yours, a brief, almost accidental touch… and yet it lingers like fire. Xaden never does anything by accident.

You nod, following as he strides through the stone corridors of Basgiath, flight leathers unzipped just enough to reveal the line of his throat. The hallway twists toward the Riders’ Wing, familiar and echoing with every moment that’s led to this one. He glances over his shoulder, slowing just enough to walk beside you now. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.

His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You’re tense.” His eyes flick downward, catching the subtle twitch in your fingers. “Still high off the flight? Or just nervous about being alone with me?”

There’s a ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—taunting, but only because he wants you to challenge him. Gods, he always wants you to challenge him.

Xaden’s room is close, but he doesn’t rush. He keeps his pace just slow enough to build the tension like a drawn bowstring. You know he feels it, too—the way his jaw flexes, the way his fingers clench just once at his sides like he’s stopping himself from reaching for you again.

He unlocks the door with a flick of his wrist, the wards parting like they know better than to deny him anything. The scent inside is familiar now—leather, steel, and something you’ve only come to associate with him. Something that makes your pulse spike in your throat.

The door clicks shut behind you.

“Finally,” he murmurs. It’s not loud. It’s not rushed. But there’s something final about it. Like every other moment today was just a prelude to this one.

He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your shoulder as he shrugs off his flight jacket and tosses it to the side. “You flew like hell today. Not that I’m surprised.”

The praise warms your skin, but it’s the look in his eyes that burns—the way he studies you like you’re the only thing that’s ever made him forget how to breathe.