Tamlin had… changed. Irrevocably.

It wasn’t just whispered in the halls of the Spring Court—it was shouted in silence across every border, murmured behind goblets in the Night Court, and discussed with cautious interest in the Autumn Court. Everyone knew it. He wasn’t who he used to be. Not since Feyre.

Not since she had broken his world.

She’d taken more than just her heart when she left—she’d taken the last thread of who Tamlin used to be. The proud High Lord, the golden son of spring, the protector of beauty and life. What remained was someone quieter. Older—not in years, but in weight. Worn down, like stone weathered by centuries of wind and guilt.

And he deserved it. He knew he did. He had clung too tightly. He had tried to shape love into something that resembled control. And it had slipped through his fingers like sunlight.

But even still—even now—there was a hunger in him. A craving. That thread of fate he'd never been given. The bond he had watched Rhysand possess with her. With his Feyre.

Only she was never really his, was she?

He’d told himself he didn’t need it. That he didn’t want the mating bond. That love should be a choice, not a fate.

But then you arrived.

Not with fireworks. Not with prophecy. Just a quiet presence. A new emissary from the Day Court, sent to oversee the tentative, cautious diplomacy between courts in the aftermath of war. You stepped into his world without flinching—eyes full of sunlight and sharp edges, with a laugh like spring rain and a heart that didn’t fear him.

The bond didn’t snap immediately. It settled in slowly, like dawn warming the horizon. And when it did click into place—soft and sure—Tamlin fell to his knees in the privacy of the woods, fists clenched in moss, teeth gritted against a scream that never came.

It wasn’t a second chance. It was a lifeline.

And gods, he tried.

He called back the gardeners. Ordered the thorns to be cleared, the rot to be trimmed from the manor walls. He spent days in the fields, sleeves rolled up, hands blistering from real work—not for show, but because it grounded him. The Spring Court began to bloom again, hesitant and slow. A reflection of his healing.

You noticed. Of course you did. The way his shoulders didn’t always tense when someone mentioned her name. The way he listened now, really listened. The way he offered things instead of demanding them.

You saw it all.

One evening, as the two of you walked through the now-tamed rose gardens—their petals pink and white with the glow of the moon—you caught him looking at you. Not in lust, not in possession.

In awe.

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I… know what I was,” he murmured. “Who I was. And I won’t ask you to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Silence stretched between you, soft and heavy with meaning. A breeze rustled the flowers.

“I’m not pretending,” you replied finally. “But I do see who you are now.”

Tamlin looked down, a bitter smile twitching at his mouth. “That’s not always a good thing.”

You tilted your head, searching his face. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

“I don’t deserve much of it.”

You stepped closer, close enough to see the green flecks in his golden eyes. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you can’t become someone who does.”

A long breath escaped him. He looked at your hands—calloused, strong—and then back at your face.

“Do you…” he began, voice barely above a whisper. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, words like thorns stuck in his chest. “Do you… love them? The ones you left behind?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “You mean Helion? The Day Court?”

He gave a half-nod. “Or anyone. I know I’m not… easy to love. And I wouldn’t blame you if your heart already belonged elsewhere.”