the cypress trees hung heavy with moss, their gnarled roots dipping into the black water of the bayou like ancient fingers. jackson stood by the edge of the pier, the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke clinging to his flannel shirt. his broad shoulders were tense, the muscles in his back rippling beneath the fabric as he worked a piece of cedar with a small carving knife.

the snap of a twig announced her arrival long before he smelled the metallic tang of old blood and expensive perfume. {{user}} walked with a grace that defied her age, her curves framed by the soft light of the rising moon. she was a mikaelson, a name that usually made his blood boil, but she was also the only person who seemed to see the weight he was carrying.

"you’re going to dull that blade if you keep gripping it like a weapon, jackson," she said, her voice a low, melodic hum that vibrated in his chest.

jackson didn't look up, though his hands slowed. "it’s a distraction. better to carve wood than to carve a path through my own head."

she stepped closer, the heat radiating from her body a stark contrast to the humid chill of the swamp. she reached out, her hand hovering near his arm before she thought better of it. "the black kyanite stones are secured. the ritual can proceed. your pack will finally be free of the crescent curse. they'll have the strength of the moonlight without the change."

jackson finally turned, his hazel eyes searching hers. the rugged lines of his face were etched with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "this ritual... it changes everything for my people. it’s what i’ve wanted my whole life."

{{user}} leaned against the wooden post, her gaze unwavering. "then why do you look like you’re walking toward a gallows instead of a throne?"

the silence between them stretched, thick and heavy as the marsh air. jackson dropped the knife, the wood clattering onto the deck. he took a step into her space, his towering frame casting a shadow over her. his hand finally found the curve of her waist, his thumb brushing against the soft fabric of her dress.

"because the woman i’m standing next to right now," he whispered, his voice dropping to a gravelly register that made her breath hitch, "isn't the one i’ll be standing next to at the altar."