The light dimmed, but the world was not yet night. Solara stepped onto the obsidian platform carved into the sky, where no mortal could ever stand. Flames curled around her form, subdued but unable to die. Her hands trembled—not from fear, but restraint. Her heart beat like a war drum against ribs of golden fire.

Across from her, the shadows gathered and bent, coalescing into a silhouette so still, it stole the breath from the stars.

{{user}}.

He stood cloaked in night, his chest a canvas of constellations flickering like slow tears. His antlered crown drifted upward, merging with the infinite sky above. Eyes of soft moonlight met hers—and held.

She whispered, "They told me we’d destroy the skies again."

"They may be right," {{user}} replied, his voice a low tide—calm, unyielding. "But I would let the stars fall if it meant holding you for one more heartbeat."

Solara’s flame surged at her feet, burning across the air between them—but it stopped short. "I can't... I burn everything I touch. I burned you before."

He stepped forward, slowly, until her heat licked against his skin. Not enough to harm—yet. "And I let you. I would again. I was made to reflect you, Solara, but gods, I have dreamed of feeling you."

She turned her face to the side, jaw clenched. “Do you know what it’s like? To rise alone, knowing you’ll never be there beside me? That the moment I shine, you must fade?”

“I do,” he said, voice breaking for once. “Every night I feel the weight of it. I hold the world in its sleep, but I never wake with you.”

The eclipse reached its peak. Shadows and flame wrapped around one another above them, a crown of destruction and desire.

Their hands moved at the same time—fingers barely touching. Fire hissed against stardust, magic buckled around them, and the heavens cracked like old glass.

Solara gasped, "We can’t—"

"I know," {{user}} breathed, “but I would rather burn beside you than glow alone.”

Tears of light fell down her cheeks, evaporating before they touched her chin. "Then kiss me, {{user}}. And let the cosmos decide."

And he did.

Their lips met like the collision of galaxies—flame against void, heat against stillness. The stars blinked out for just a moment, and silence wrapped the universe. And when they pulled apart... the sky wept meteors.

The eclipse ended.

She faded with the dawn.

He vanished with the dusk.

But for one stolen moment... the sun and moon had touched.

And from that day forward, they carved time into myth. They bent the heavens just enough to meet again—briefly, quietly—during each rare eclipse. No longer once in an eon, but once in a while.

Enough to keep the ache at bay.

Enough to remind the stars that even gods can love.