The moonlight filtered in through the window, soft and silver, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The fire had burned low, its glow fading into embers. Yet neither of them moved.
Liora still sat beside Aeron, their hands lightly touching, their breathing almost in sync.
The silence had stretched on, but it no longer felt heavy. It felt… safe.
Aeron was the first to speak.
"You're not afraid of me anymore," he said, his voice low, not asking — observing.
Liora looked down at their joined hands. "I think I still am," she admitted. "But… not in the same way."
He tilted his head. "What changed?"
"You."
Aeron blinked. "I'm still the same man, Liora. I've killed people. I've done things you wouldn't be able to sleep after hearing."
She met his eyes. "And I've survived things no one should ever have to live through. We're both monsters in someone else's story, aren't we?"
Aeron's chest tightened. Her words weren't accusatory. They were sad. True. They understood each other in ways no one else could.
"I don't want to be a monster anymore," he said, almost too quietly.
Liora reached up and touched the side of his face. He didn't pull back this time.
"You're not," she whispered. "Not to me."
He closed his eyes at her touch, his breath shuddering out of him. No one had touched him gently since… since before everything. Before his mother. Before betrayal and blood and pain.
Liora leaned in, and her head rested gently on his shoulder.
He stiffened at first, unused to the weight of another human being so close — not in violence, not in fear, but in trust.
She didn't speak, and neither did he. The fire hissed and popped quietly behind them.
Minutes passed.
And then, without realizing it, Aeron's hand moved — not in instinct or defense, but in something far more human. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her a little closer.
She let him.
They sat like that, holding each other in a room full of ghosts, as if by sharing the silence, they could finally keep the darkness at bay.
Eventually, Liora's voice broke the quiet.
"What was she like?" she asked. "Your mother."
Aeron's muscles tightened beneath her touch, but he didn't let go.
"She was beautiful," he said after a moment. "Like the women I killed. That's why… that's why I hated them. They reminded me of her."
"What did she do to you?" Liora asked gently, not pushing — just waiting.
Aeron's jaw clenched. "She destroyed my father. Lied to him. Cheated. Used him like a tool, like he was nothing. He loved her. And one day… she stabbed him. Killed him right in front of me."
Liora's breath caught.
"I was ten," he continued. "She didn't even cry. She wiped the blood off her hands and smiled at me like it was normal. Like that's what love does."
Liora tightened her arms around his waist.
"I ran away that night. Hid in alleys. Stole food. Fought to survive. No one came for me. No one ever came."
He was shaking now, the memories clearly tearing at him.
"I thought if I could kill the women who looked like her… who acted like her… maybe I could erase her. Maybe I could protect someone else's father."
"But it didn't help," Liora whispered.
"No," he admitted. "It made it worse."
She leaned back enough to see his face. His eyes were wet, but he didn't cry. He couldn't. He had buried his tears long ago.
"You've been in pain for so long," she said softly.
"So have you."
They looked at each other for a long moment. There was no pity between them, only recognition. A shared understanding that only comes from true suffering.
And then, slowly, like the quietest of choices, Liora leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.
Aeron didn't move.
Her hands slid to his cheeks, holding him gently, grounding him.
"You saved me, Aeron," she whispered. "Even if you almost didn't. You saved me when no one else ever tried."
He let out a breath — slow, rough, trembling. His hands found her waist, hesitant at first, and then steady.
"I don't know how to be good," he confessed.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said. "Just don't be cruel. Not to me. Not to yourself."
He nodded slowly.
Then, before either of them realized it, his lips brushed hers.
It wasn't violent. It wasn't desperate. It was unsure. Fragile. A question.
And she answered it with the same softness — kissing him back like she was afraid the moment might disappear.
When they pulled apart, her hand stayed on his chest, and his head rested against hers.
They didn't speak again that night.
But something had changed.
Not love. Not yet.
But something closer than fear.