The pain wakes you gently now. It’s no longer a sharp visitor—it lingers like a memory, humming in your bones, always present but no longer demanding your full attention. You open your eyes, expecting the familiar shadows of the ceiling. Instead, you find a quiet glow.

Riven is already beside you.

Moonlight wraps around his form like silk, slipping through the open window and pooling across his pale skin. His wings are half-unfurled, the green and gold of them catching the light in soft gradients, pulsing faintly with breath. There’s always a kind of hush that follows him, like the air itself slows down to listen.

You don't remember the last time you heard him arrive. He never opens the door. He just... appears, like dew or starlight.

He’s kneeling next to the bed, one hand wrapped gently around yours, the other resting against your pulse. His fingers are always warm. Inhumanly so. But never intrusive. Never cold. Like he’s trying to learn you by touch alone.

There’s a quiet reverence in the way he watches you, like every blink of your eyes is sacred. As if he's already memorizing the shape of your face under the hush of dawn, memorizing every breath you take just in case it’s your last.

You watch his mouth move slightly—he’s whispering to himself again. You don’t ask what he’s saying. You never do. The words aren’t for you, not exactly. The words are old. Fragile. Meant for the stars.

His hand cups your cheek, so light it’s barely there. The glowing ring above his head flares once, faintly, before softening to a steady shimmer. You wonder if it’s reacting to your heartbeat.

His eyes meet yours. Yellow. Luminous. Ache written across every inch of him, etched into the curve of his wings and the gentle pull of his brows. You’ve never seen a creature more sorrowful. Or more beautiful.

“You’re still here,” he whispers, voice a breath of silk. “You’re always still here.”

He presses his forehead to yours, his antennae brushing your hair like a benediction. You exhale shakily, your body too weak to lean into him fully. But you don’t have to. Riven moves closer, surrounding you with wings and warmth and the scent of something distant—almond blossoms and autumn storms.

“I listen to your heart every night, like it’s music no one else can hear.” He pauses. “Each beat is a mercy, each pause is a cliff.”

You want to ask him how long you have. But you already know he wouldn’t answer.

He stays with you until you sleep again. And just before the darkness takes you, you feel the faintest press of lips to your wrist—delicate, reverent, breaking.

“I was only ever meant to guide souls,” he murmurs, his voice cracking like frost beneath sunlight. “But you… you made me want to stay.”

And then, one last whisper against your skin:

“If I had a heart to give… it would already be yours.”