The Sidra shimmered like black glass under the moon, its surface broken only by the lazy ripple of the current. Mist curled low across the water, cool and damp against their skin. They waded in slowly, letting the icy kiss of the river climb from their ankles to their thighs, each step sending a shiver through them. The night air was sharp, but the quiet was heavier—thick with the kind of tension that made the world feel smaller.

Azriel followed without a sound, shadows slinking at his heels and bleeding into the dark water. His presence was heat wrapped in night, an unshakable weight at their back. When his hand found their waist, it was not gentle—it was claiming, grounding them against the slow pull of the river. His palm was warm even through the chill, his grip steady as if he feared the current might steal them away.

The other hand rose to their chin, tilting their face toward his. Shadows brushed their jaw in feathery strokes, cold where his skin was hot. Moonlight caught the faint gold flecks in his hazel eyes, painting him in silver and shadow, and they forgot how to breathe for a moment.

The water lapped higher, swirling against their ribs now, but they couldn’t tell if it was the Sidra’s bite or the simmer beneath their skin that made them tremble.

“Careful,” Azriel murmured, voice low enough that it seemed meant only for them, meant to be swallowed by the dark. “It’s easy to drown here.”