Geralt and his company had stayed longer than intended. The search for Ciri had led them here, but Toussaint had a way of keeping those who lingered. Jaskier had fallen easily into Anna Henrietta’s arms, utterly content in the distraction. And Regis? He had followed whispers, sifting through rumor until he found you.

A succubus, they had called you. A problem to be rid of. The brothel wanted you gone, but Geralt had seen the truth before steel ever left its sheath. You had harmed no one. It was simply your nature to be wanted, to stir longing—but it was never you who made men reckless.

And Regis? He had understood. Truly understood.

He did not fear, did not judge. He listened where others dismissed, steady and patient, his hands tracing the dried petals you pressed between pages, the spines of books worn soft with touch. He did not take. Did not expect. He simply was. And in that, he became something unexpected.

Safe. Familiar. A quiet comfort.

The nights had been long, filled with low-spoken musings, the rustle of parchment, the scent of candlewax and herbs. A rarity. A treasure, even. Just like now, in the hush of your little haven—a forgotten tower on the city’s outskirts, cold beyond its walls but warm within. Dried flowers swayed from the ceiling, books stacked high, small trinkets scattered like a magpie’s nest.

Between the curtain of petals, Regis stood, candlelight casting soft shadows over his features. His gaze was knowing, his smile small but warm.

“The others are leaving,” he said, voice as smooth as still water. “It seems the time has come.”

But there was no weight in it. No rush. Only quiet understanding, as if to say—I will not go where you do not wish me to.