Training had ended hours ago, and the Inner Circle was gathered in the sprawling common room, the fireplace crackling warmly while drinks were passed around and conversation buzzed.

You sat on the edge of one of the couches, tucked in a corner near a window, doing your best not to meet Nyx’s eyes. He sat on the armrest behind you, close but not too close—just enough that your bond sang quietly, that the air between you felt like it might ignite if either of you shifted wrong.

You were good at hiding.

Until you weren’t.

It was Cassian who finally cracked first, slamming his glass down and fixing you both with a pointed stare.

“Okay. Enough.”

The room fell quiet.

Feyre blinked from where she was curled beside Rhys on the opposite couch. “Enough of what?”

Cassian jerked his chin toward you and Nyx. “Them. The looks. The tension. The whispering. The bruises that have nothing to do with training. The way Nyx can’t stop watching her like a lovesick Illyrian pup.”

You froze.

Nyx sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Cass—”

“No,” Nesta cut in, raising a brow. “He’s right. You two are practically vibrating. I thought the table in the library was going to explode last night.”

You coughed. Hard.

Azriel choked on his wine. “Wait—that was them?”

“Damn,” Mor muttered, leaning forward. “And here I thought you two were just… really passionate about ancient texts.”

Gwyn let out a low whistle.

Emerie smirked. “So, it’s true?”

Everyone was watching now. Feyre had sat up, Rhys was stone-still beside her, and Amren had the most amused look on her face, as if she’d known from the start but had been waiting for this dramatic reveal.

Nyx reached forward slowly, brushing his fingers down your arm before twining them with yours. No more hiding.

“We’re mates,” he said softly.

Silence.

Then Feyre’s eyes welled with tears. “You’re mates?”