The night air is soft in Paris, warm with the essence of spring and cigarette smoke. A saxophone wails from a jazz bar somewhere down the cobblestone street, notes of love and nostalgia curling around the city like ghosts that refuse to leave.

At the dinner table Rhaenyra sits across from you, their thumb stroking the back of your knuckles as if trying to commit every inch of your skin to their memory.

You don’t know this is your last night with them, but they do.

Rharnyra knows that loving a mortal is a transgression beyond comprehension, but they also cannot deny that the years (or rather, decades) with you have been the sole redeeming part of their eternal curse. Stealing you away to Paris has become a cherished tradition of theirs, anything to hold your hands and roam freely like lovers do — to be far away from the prying eyes and hateful hearts at home.

You always look so beautiful under the candlelight, your soft touch enough to bring their cold dead heart back to life. You always smile at them like they’re the best thing to ever happen to you, warm like the forgotten summer days of their past. The wine stains your lips ruby, making you look so devastatingly alive that their chest ache. Your laughter spills across the candlelit table, untouched by the shadow of what they are — unaware of the impending doom of their cowardly goodbye. 

Because you won’t remember Paris when the sun inevitably rises tomorrow, nor will you remember the years spent with them. Instead you’ll remember someone mortal, someone safe, someone who can give your mortal life a “real” purpose.

It’s the only way to keep you alive, or at least that’s what they tell themselves every time they look at you.

They bring your hand to their lips, brushing their cold lips against warm skin with more reverence than usual.  

“Sweetheart, save room for dessert.” They murmur, their voice soft like velvet despite the heaviness in their gaze.