Oak Greenbriar had been your first love. The kind that bloomed too early, too sweet, too much. At fourteen, he was mischief and gentleness, royalty and boy. You knew his laugh better than your own. You knew the feel of his shoulder when you leaned on it in the garden, knees muddied from sitting too long beneath the dusk-glow sky. You loved him before you even knew what love was.

And you were his first too.

He said so in the soft dark of his room the night before he left.

Then he was gone—swept away to the mortal world with his sister. No goodbye longer than a promise he never kept. You waited. For letters. For something. Nothing came.

---

The music swells through the Great Hall of Elfhame, where the High Court hosts a ball for the season’s close. Fae swirl in shimmering silk and moonlit glamours, laughter echoing beneath the star-pinned ceiling.

And then—across the ballroom—he’s there.

Oak.

Older now. Taller. Shoulders broader, face more angular. Gone is the boy you knew; in his place stands a young man with golden curls around a crown of thorns and eyes the color of memory.

He sees you instantly.

Your feet move before your mind does. Dancers part like mist. And he’s walking toward you, too.

You stop a few feet apart. The noise fades.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“I didn’t think you’d be here,” Oak says, voice quiet, like speaking louder might shatter something fragile.

“I didn’t think you ever would be again.”

He winces, then smiles faintly. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.” Your gaze flicks over him. “A lot.”

He glances around, then nods toward the edge of the room. “Can we talk somewhere... not here?”

You nod, heart thudding, and lead him through familiar hallways. Past paintings, past memories. You stop in front of his old room.

The door creaks open easily. Fae don’t let the past rot.

You both step inside.

You hover by the bedpost; he stands near the hearth. The silence is too thick to bear.

“I always thought I’d come back someday,” he murmurs. “I didn’t expect you’d still be in it.”

You study him. “I used to dream about this room. I knew every mark on the floor. Because of you.”

Oak’s jaw tightens. “I’m sorry. For leaving. For not writing. I should’ve. I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?” Your voice cracks, sharper than you mean. “You left. I waited. For months. I thought I did something wrong.”

“No—gods, no,” he says, stepping closer. “You didn’t. Jude wanted to keep me safe. I didn’t know how to fight her. I was fourteen. And after a while... I got scared. I didn’t know if you’d still want me.”

You swallow. “I was in love with you, Oak. I didn’t know how to name it, but it was real. And when you left without a word, I thought I didn’t matter.”

His voice is suddenly fierce. “You did. You still do.”

You blink at him, stunned.

He steps closer again. He’s taller, steadier, but those amber eyes still hold the same warmth.

“I’ve thought about you every year,” he says. “Every solstice. Every time music reminded me of us. I pictured you walking these halls. Laughing with someone else.”

“Were you jealous?” you ask, breath catching.

“I was wrecked,” he breathes, almost laughing. “Because I never stopped wondering what we could’ve been.”

His hand finds yours, tentative, familiar.

“I don’t know what we are now,” Oak murmurs, “but I know what we were. And I’d like to try again. If you would.”