The storm had passed.
Myst stood amidst the wreckage, her body still humming with power, the glow on her skin slowly dimming. The luminescent veins of energy—Blue Rose—had settled, no longer wild, no longer something separate from her.
She had become it. Accepted it.
And yet…
Her breaths were still uneven, her body trembling—not from exhaustion, but from everything that came crashing in after. The realization of what she had done. Of what she had embraced.
She didn't notice him at first. Not until she felt it—the weight of his presence, a steady, grounding shadow.
Nyx.
She knew he had been watching. Knew he had seen all of it. The power, the destruction. The moment she stopped resisting and let it take her whole.
Myst clenched her fists, willing the remaining tremors in her fingers to stop.
Nyx stepped closer. Not cautiously, not hesitantly. Just there, beside her, close enough that the heat of him contrasted the cold air around them. Close enough that she felt it.
Felt him.
But she didn't turn.
"…Are you good?" His voice was quiet, unreadable.
Myst exhaled slowly. "Yeah."
A long beat stretched between them. The remnants of her power still pulsed faintly under her skin, the air around them thick with the lingering energy. But she wasn't sure what she was waiting for. Judgment? Reassurance? Anything to make sense of what came next?
She flinched slightly when his fingers brushed against her wrist—barely a touch, but it sent something sharp through her, something that had nothing to do with power.
Her skin was still warm from the energy surging through her veins. But his touch? It was something else entirely.
Myst finally turned to him.
Nyx held her gaze, unwavering. He didn't look at her with fear. Didn't look at her like she was something untouchable.
No, his expression was steady, piercing through every doubt still clawing at her.
His fingers tightened slightly over her wrist. A silent, grounding reminder that she was still here.
Myst swallowed. "I don't know what this means for me," she admitted, voice quieter than she intended.
Nyx tilted his head slightly, his grip never faltering. "Does it have to mean something right now?"
That caught her off guard.
His gaze flickered down—brief, almost subtle—before returning to hers. And she knew.
She shouldn't. She should step back.
But then his fingers traced higher, slow, deliberate, and her heart slammed against her ribs because she had just accepted everything she was, had just let go of the fear, and yet—
Yet, this was what made her feel truly exposed. Not the power. Not Blue Rose.
This.
Nyx's touch. The way he was so close now, the heat of him breaking through the cold. The way he didn't look at her like she was different.
The silence between them was heavy, charged with something neither of them dared to name.
Her fingers twitched. She should pull away. She doesn't.
Nyx shifts closer, and she doesn't stop him.
And when his lips finally crash against hers—she doesn't pull away from that either.
The kiss is slow at first. Testing. Searching. But the hesitation fades too fast, replaced by something heavier, something neither of them are ready to name.
Nyx deepens it, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her neck, fingertips pressing just enough—not to hold her there, but to keep her close. Myst melts into it, a quiet gasp slipping between them as he tilts his head, as he pulls her deeper into the moment.
Her hands curl into the fabric of his jacket, gripping tight as if anchoring herself. But her heart is pounding—loud, erratic—because for the first time in a long time, she isn't thinking.
She's just feeling. And then—
A flash. A memory that isn't hers. A flicker of violet. Of warmth. Of something lost and unreachable.
Flux.
The realization hits like a cold shock to her system. Myst's breath catches.
And suddenly, the weight of it all—the kiss, the impossible mess of everything—comes crashing down on her.
She pulls away, sharp, abrupt, barely breathing. Her forehead almost rests against his, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to shove the conflict back down before it consumes her.
Nyx doesn't move away. His breathing is uneven, but his grip on her loosens, giving her space. For a second, neither of them moves.
"This... didn't happen."
Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the stillness like a blade.
Nyx doesn't argue. Doesn't press. He just watches her for a long, unreadable moment before muttering.
"If that's what you want."
But even as the words leave him, he doesn't move away. Instead, his fingers ghost along her wrist—a lingering touch, warm, grounding, just enough to make her heart stutter.
She doesn't pull away. Not yet.
She should tell him. About the memory, about the flicker of violet, about the reason why she can't do this.
But she doesn't.
Instead, she steps back. And Nyx lets her go.
But long after she's turned away, long after the moment is over—her skin still remembers the warmth he left behind.