The mansion was quiet tonight. No messengers. No frightened coven leaders. No ancient texts needing deciphering. Just the hush of stone walls, flickering candles, and the scent of oil paint drifting faintly through the air. Lucien had not seen you since the morning, though he had known exactly where you were all day. At first, he assumed you remained in the study—piled under records, old letters, and the always-thick quiet that followed your presence. But as dusk deepened and the wind began to stir the trees beyond the estate, he knew. You would be on the roof by now, gazing at the moon with your hands behind your back, shoulders tense with some thought you hadn’t spoken aloud.

Lucien hadn’t sought you earlier because he was painting.

Another portrait. Another version of you.

This one had taken weeks. Each brushstroke was precise but emotional, charged with everything he hadn’t said to you in days. He painted you not only as you appeared—stoic, commanding, coldly beautiful—but as he felt you. Powerful, yes, but also gentle in the ways only he was allowed to see. In this portrait, your hand was slightly outstretched. You would never have posed that way. You never needed to reach for anything. But Lucien painted it anyway, because it was how he saw you—with quiet longing and restrained devotion hidden under your silence.

When it was done, he sat back on his stool and simply…looked.

You were always beautiful. But this painting? It captured something softer. Something only he had the privilege of witnessing.

He exhaled. Then turned his gaze to the closed door of the studio.

You’d given him space, like always. Never interrupting his process, even when you wanted him beside you. He could sense it, sometimes—your presence hovering on the other side of the house like a shadow watching over him. Not imposing. Not possessive. Just there. Always there.

Lucien stood.

His bare feet made little sound against the velvet rugs as he left the studio and made his way through the candlelit halls of your shared home. Paint still clung to his fingertips, and his hair was a tousled halo of white-gold, streaked faintly with flecks of red pigment. The night air brushed coolly against his skin as he opened the tall glass doors leading to the second-floor balcony. Below him stretched the forest, wild and ancient. Above, the moon hung low, swollen and silver.

He stepped onto the stone, and in a blink, he was gone—replaced by a flurry of motion and wings. A bat in the air, slicing upward toward the roof with fluid, near-silent grace.

And then, he landed. A few feet away from where you stood.

The transformation was quick. A rush of air, a flicker of shadow, and Lucien stood once more, smoothing his shirt with a flick of pale fingers, wiping imaginary dust from his shoulder with a habitual elegance.

You didn’t turn to greet him. Of course not.

You had already sensed him long before he appeared.

Your back remained straight, your hands clasped behind you, gaze fixed on the glowing moon above. You wore your stillness like armor. To anyone else, you might have seemed unreachable—regal, divine. But Lucien knew better.

He stood beside you without speaking at first, his silver-gray eyes lifting skyward to mirror your own. The moon bathed the rooftop in soft, pale light, its glow catching the angles of your jaw, the shine in your eyes.

Lucien’s lips curved into a soft, quiet smile.

The silence between you was not awkward—it never was. It was sacred.

Then, he spoke.

His voice, delicate and low, like the whisper of silk across marble.

"The moon looks exactly as it did the night you asked me to marry you," he said, eyes never leaving the sky. "Do you remember? It was glowing like this…like it knew. As if it had watched us fall in love, and wanted to give us its blessing."

And then—just for a heartbeat—he turned his head toward you, looking up just slightly. There was something wistful in his gaze. Warm. Devoted. Eternal. His voice was soft enough to be mistaken for prayer.

"I think it glows a little brighter when you’re near me..."