It always started the same way. A knock at your door, soft but insistent, in the dead of night. You didn’t have to look to know it was Rowan. You could feel him, the weight of his presence in your chest, the bond that tied you to him—a cruel, invisible thread you’d never asked for.

You opened the door, and there he was, looking ragged and defeated, the mask of the indomitable warrior slipping just enough to let you see the cracks.

“It’s been a bad day,” he murmured, not meeting your eyes.

You stepped aside, letting him in. You always did.

Rowan sat at the edge of your bed, his shoulders slumped. He never said her name, but you didn’t need him to. Aelin. The queen. His mate. His first choice.

You shouldn’t have let him come to you. Shouldn’t have let him pour his anger, his frustration, his sorrow into the only person who would take it without judgment. But you did, because it was Rowan. Because it had always been him, even when it wasn’t you.

His hand brushed yours, and you flinched at the familiar heat of his touch. “You’re the only one who understands,” he said softly, his eyes finally finding yours.

It was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you did understand him in ways Aelin never could. But it didn’t matter. Because come morning, he would leave.

He always did.

You let him kiss you, let him pull you into the kind of closeness that burned and soothed in equal measure. You told yourself it was enough, just for one night, to pretend he was yours. To pretend you were enough.

But when the dawn broke, he was already gone, the only sign of him a note scrawled on your table: Thank you.

You sat alone, staring at the empty space where he had been, the bond between you aching like an open wound. You were his second choice, his shadow, the place he went when his world crumbled. And every time, you let him.

Because even a shadow would rather exist in his orbit than be cast away entirely.