The music shimmered through the air like spun glass—delicate, distant, and far too cheerful. {{user}} stood near the bar, half-turned away from the crowd, fingers ghosting the rim of a glass you weren’t supposed to have. The celebration was in your honor, supposedly. Another grand elven tradition you were expected to smile through.

Your mother would’ve loved this—smiling, weaving lies in a golden dress, pretending you were hers alone. But she wasn’t here. She hadn’t been for years, not since your father found you and brought you back to where you truly belonged. And you were glad. You didn’t miss her. Not her voice, not her empty warmth, not the way she clung to you like a possession instead of a person.

Your father was different. Stern, maybe, but real. Grounded like the roots of the forests his kind had ruled for centuries. He hadn’t stolen you—he’d claimed you back. And even though you were only half-elf, you bore the high-blooded look of one, which seemed to please him quietly.

You raised the glass, hesitating. The wine shimmered in the light, dark and forbidden. Your heart thudded a little faster—not from guilt, but from anticipation. Just a sip, before he noticed.

And then—you felt him. That familiar weight of his gaze, calm and knowing. A hand reached over your shoulder, deftly plucking the glass from your grip.

"Nice try."

The words were soft, but laced with that dry amusement you’d come to recognize. Caught, again. But even as your ears warmed with embarrassment, you couldn’t help the small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. He always saw you.