The orchard path still smells like wildflowers and sunlight. The breeze hums through the tall grass, soft and warm against my skin, and the fading orange sky still holds the last stretch of our laughter. My hand is sticky from the lemonade {{user}} insisted on getting us—she said the stall vendor “looked lonely” and then flirted her way into two extra cookies and a flower made of wax paper.

She’s twirling it now, that ridiculous little flower, with the kind of pride you’d think was reserved for war medals or crowns. Her hair is a mess, swept to one side by the wind, and her sleeves are rolled to the elbows, showing the faint shimmer of scales that she never quite hides well enough.

We’re walking slowly, not talking. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because we’re trying to make the moment last.

“Today was perfect,” I murmur, finally.

{{user}} looks over at me with a smile that softens everything sharp about her. “It was. You laughed.”

“You say that like it’s rare.”

“It is,” she teases, nudging my shoulder. “But it’s always my favorite sound.”

I blush, looking away even though I want to lean into her. She always says things like that—like I’m some sunbeam instead of someone cracked around the edges.

The cottage is just ahead now. Its lights glow warm in the distance. I can hear clinking from the kitchen, the faint hum of voices through the windows. Home. Safety. Expectation.

I slow my steps.

So does {{user}}.

But she doesn’t turn toward the trees like usual. Doesn’t make her quiet retreat. Instead, she stays rooted beside me, and when I glance over, she’s not smiling anymore.

“Let me stay,” she says, so quietly it barely reaches me over the wind.

My heart sinks. “{{user}}…”

“Just for a night.” She steps in closer, lowering her voice like she’s afraid of startling me. “I won’t breathe fire. I won’t do anything reckless. I just… I don’t want to vanish into the woods again like a secret you’re trying to forget.”

I wrap my arms around myself, wings twitching, folding tighter. “It’s not about you. It’s them. If they see you—”

“I know,” she cuts in. “They’ll assume the worst. That I’ll hurt you. Corrupt you. Drag you back into chaos.”

My throat is tight. “I don’t want to give them a reason to think I’m still broken.”

“You’re not broken.” Her voice sharpens. “And I’m not here to break you.”

I look down. “They won’t see it that way.”

“And what about you?” Her voice cracks then, just a little. “Do you see it that way?”

I lift my eyes. She’s not hiding how much this hurts her—not like she used to. It’s in the way her shoulders are stiff, how her jaw trembles even when she tries to speak steady.

“No,” I whisper. “You’re the only thing that’s made me feel like I’m allowed to want something for myself again.”

She swallows, hard. “Then why are you always sending me away?”

I can’t answer that. Not without unraveling. Not without confessing that I wake up every night after she leaves and wonder what it would be like to wake up with her beside me instead.

“I’m scared,” I finally say, voice breaking. “That I’ll lose everything if I let myself have you.”

She doesn’t respond right away. When she does, it’s softer than I expect. “Then don’t have me. Just let me stay. For one night. No labels, no declarations. Just… let me be near you without hiding.”

And God, I want to. I want to so badly I ache with it. I can already feel her warmth in my bed, already hear her laugh echoing through the attic space.

But the light on the porch flickers on, and I see movement through the window.

My parents are home.

Dinner is probably on the table. They’ll ask questions. They’ll know.

I step back. It’s the cruelest thing I’ve done all day.

{{user}} watches me, her face hardening, not out of anger but defense. “You’re really not going to let me in.”

Tears prick my eyes. “If they see you, {{user}}, it won’t be just one night. It’ll be a fight. And I don’t want to have to choose.”