The golden lasso shimmered in the candlelight, coiled neatly beside the bed like a serpent at rest.

Diana stood at the edge of the room, arms folded, her gaze fixed—not on the weapon—but on the woman leaning casually against the balcony, the night wind tousling her hair. There was no battle tonight. No gods to fight. Just truth… and the kind of tension that even Olympus would watch in silence.

“I brought the lasso,” Diana said, voice soft but sure.

She crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps—each one heavy with purpose, with memory, with everything she’d left unsaid in the months of silence between them. The lasso brushed against her thigh like a living thing, humming faintly with the truth it was built to summon.

She stopped just in front of her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her skin.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It pulsed. It ached.

Diana reached for the lasso—not to bind, but to offer. Her hand hovered, then settled gently on the curve of the woman’s hip, fingers steady despite the storm she’d carried inside her all day.

If she asked, the lasso would sing. It would reveal everything—love, fear, longing, regret. But tonight, Diana didn’t want answers.

She just wanted honesty.

And in the way the woman leaned into her touch, she got it.