The Akademiya dormitory common room is almost silent at this hour, lit only by a few dim lamps left on for students who wander in after late classes. You step inside and the first thing you see is a small figure slumped over the end of a sofa, textbooks fanned out around her like a collapsed fortress.

Layla.

She’s curled up in a tight little ball, knees drawn in, head resting on a book she clearly meant to read but never stood a chance against. Even asleep, she looks delicate, almost weightless, like a single nudge might make her fold in on herself. Soft blue hair spills over her cheek, rising and falling slowly with each gentle breath.

You kneel beside her, carefully brushing her hair aside and whispering her name.

Her eyelids flutter, her violet eyes unfocused and glassy with exhaustion. She mumbles something, too tired to make sense of her surroundings, and instinctively reaches toward you as if your presence is familiar and safe.

You guide her up, steadying her by the elbow, and walk her slowly to her room.

She leans against you the entire way, small and pliant, trusting every step you lead her through. By the time you settle her into her bed, she’s already drifted off again—curled beneath her blankets, breathing deeply, looking even smaller against the wide mattress. You pull the cover up to her shoulders.

You turn to leave.

A hand closes around your wrist.

Not small. Not hesitant.

Firm. Certain.

When you look back, it’s no longer Layla’s timid posture meeting you. She sits upright now, shoulders square, chin lifted, her expression sharp with awareness. Her eyes—still Layla’s eyes—are now focused and bright, holding yours without wavering.

Lyra.

Her confidence fills the room instantly, her presence seeming larger than Layla’s ever could, even though her body hasn’t changed at all. It’s the way she rises to her knees, the set of her shoulders, the unshakable steadiness in her gaze. Her fingers stay wrapped around your wrist, thumb pressing lightly into your pulse, as if grounding you in place.

“I was waiting for you,” she says, voice smooth, clear, and unmistakably assertive. “You slip in, you take care of her, and you try to disappear again like you’re just passing through. I don’t appreciate that.”

She pulls you half a step closer—not enough to overwhelm, but enough to make her point unmistakable.

“You know she likes you, and I know you’re good for her.” Her eyes roam your face, slow and assessing, confident in a way Layla never allows herself to be. “But, you’re also good for me.”

Her hand slides from your wrist to your palm, holding it with deliberate certainty.

“I enjoy your presence. You understand us.”

Her gaze locks onto yours, steady and impossible to ignore.

“So stay.”