He returned just before dawn, the hem of his coat still dusted with ash from the Ember Reaches. You were already there, waiting, seated in the corner of his study—his study, though he paused at the threshold like a guest unsure of the room’s layout.

“Someone’s been here,” he remarked dryly, eyes glancing over the books you'd rearranged in his absence.

You stood. “You asked me to water the moonlilies as soon as I return from my mission. They wilt if ignored.”

He gave a faint nod, like the statement was trivia. “Right. The flowers.”

You expected the usual next—an almost-smile, a brush of fingers against yours, the quiet sigh that only ever escaped when he was near you. Instead, he walked past without a glance.

“Merlin,” you said.

He paused at the shelf. “Yes?”

“You don’t remember me.”

It wasn’t a question. Just a quiet confirmation of what you’d already known the moment he walked in and called you someone.

He didn’t turn. “No. Should I?”

You almost laughed. Almost.

But the cold wasn’t just in his voice anymore. It was in the room. In your chest.

And outside, the moonlilies began to wilt.