The old mill smelled of river water and rot and something sweeter underneath—honeysuckle climbing the broken boards, or maybe just the two of them, sweat and want tangled into the dark. Beckett's back was against the splintered wall, and Topher's hands were still in his hair, still holding him like he was something precious instead of a fire hazard waiting to happen.

"You're thinking too loud," Topher murmured, thumb tracing the shell of Beckett's ear.

"I always think too loud. You knew that when you signed up for this."

"I signed up for you."

The words hit like a spark to dry grass. Beckett's breath caught, and his fire magic flickered along his skin—small, restless flames dancing over his knuckles. Topher watched them, his grey eyes soft with something that looked dangerously close to patience.

"You keep looking at me like that," Beckett said, his drawl rougher than he meant it to be, "and I'm going to start thinking you actually mean it."

"I've meant it for three years."

Beckett's throat went tight. He'd spent so long deflecting, so long turning every honest thing into a joke before it could land. But Topher had a way of catching his words mid-air and handing them back to him, stripped of their armor.

"Three years," Beckett repeated, testing the weight of it. "That's a long time to want someone without saying anything."

"You weren't ready to hear it." Topher's hand slid down, settling warm against the side of Beckett's neck, thumb brushing the hollow of his throat. "And I was patient."

"Patient. That's a nice word for it."

"What word would you use?"

Beckett's mouth went dry. He could feel the starlight fizzing around Topher—a subtle shimmer, like heat rising off summer pavement but made of silver and gold. It was beautiful, and it was all for him, and Beckett didn't know what to do with the weight of being wanted like that.

"I'd use 'stubborn,'" he managed. "Or 'insufferable.' Maybe 'relentless.'"

Topher laughed, low and warm, and the sound did something dangerous to Beckett's chest. "You like that I'm relentless."

"I hate it."

"Liar."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and hot, and Topher didn't flinch. He just smiled, slow and knowing, and leaned in until his lips brushed Beckett's jaw.

"You're going to burn us both down," Topher whispered against his skin.

"Maybe I want to."

"Then burn."

The permission cracked something open in Beckett. He surged forward, catching Topher's mouth with his, and the kiss was all teeth and heat and three years of longing finally finding its way out. Topher's hands came up to grip his hips, pulling him closer, and Beckett could feel the starlight pressing against his flames—silver and gold and red all tangled up together until he couldn't tell where his magic ended and Topher's began.

"I need—" Beckett started, and the words died in his throat.

"What do you need?" Topher asked, pulling back just enough to look at him. His grey eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and his freckles were starting to glow along his neck, faint pinpricks of light like distant stars.

Beckett's breath caught at the sight. He reached out, fingers brushing the glowing freckles, and Topher's sharp inhale was like a match striking.

"These," Beckett said, voice rough. "When did these—"

"They've always done this." Topher's jaw tightened. "Around you. When I—when I want something badly enough."

"You want me that badly?"

"Beckett." Topher's voice was strained, almost pained. "I've wanted you badly enough that sometimes I couldn't breathe."

The confession landed like a blow. Beckett's hands were shaking as he cupped Topher's face, pulling him into another kiss, softer this time, almost reverent. Topher made a sound against his mouth—something raw and broken—and Beckett swallowed it down like it was the only thing that could keep him alive.

"I don't know how to do this," Beckett admitted, the words spilling out between kisses. "I don't know how to be—I've never let anyone—"

"I know." Topher's hand slid to the back of his neck, holding him steady. "I know, Beck. You don't have to know. Just let me show you."

Beckett nodded, a jerky movement that was more surrender than agreement. Topher's smile was soft, almost tender, and he pressed a kiss to Beckett's forehead before pulling him toward the old mattress in the corner—the one they'd found weeks ago when they'd first scouted the mill, the one Beckett had been thinking about for days without letting himself admit why.

It smelled like dust and dry hay, and Beckett's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat as Topher laid him down, settling over him with a careful weight that made Beckett's breath stutter.

"Okay?" Topher asked, his voice low, his hand resting on Beckett's chest.

"Yeah." Beckett's voice cracked. "Yeah, just—fuck, Topher. You're really here."

"I'm really here." Topher's thumb traced the line of Beckett's collarbone, and Beckett could feel the starlight pulsing against his skin, warm and alive. "I'm not going anywhere."

Beckett's fire flared, a wild burst of heat that had nothing to do with anger. Topher laughed, soft and breathless, and leaned down to kiss him again—slower this time, like they had all the time in the world.

Beckett's hands found the hem of Topher's shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin. Topher obliged, pulling back just long enough to strip it off, and Beckett's throat went dry at the sight of him—broad shoulders, olive skin, the faint glow of freckles trailing down his chest and disappearing beneath his waistband.

"You're so beautiful," Beckett said, the words escaping before he could stop them.

Topher's eyes went soft, almost vulnerable. "Beck."

"I mean it." Beckett's hand came up, palm flat against Topher's chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "I've been looking at you for three years, and I never—I never let myself see you like this."

"And now?"

"Now I can't look away."

Topher's breath hitched, and he leaned down to kiss Beckett with a tenderness that made Beckett's chest ache. The starlight around them pulsed, bright and warm, and Beckett could feel his own fire responding, rising to meet it, two magics braiding together in the dark.

Topher's hand slid down Beckett's side, fingers catching the hem of his shirt. He pulled back, asking a silent question, and Beckett nodded—once, quick, desperate. Topher peeled the shirt off, and Beckett felt exposed in a way he'd never let himself feel before, laid bare under the weight of Topher's gaze.

"Look at you," Topher murmured, his voice rough. "You're so—"

"If you say beautiful, I'm going to set you on fire."

Topher laughed, the sound vibrating against Beckett's skin. "I was going to say mine."

Beckett's breath caught. His fire flickered, bright and wild, and Topher's starlight rose to meet it, silver and gold spiraling around them like a net.

"Say it again," Beckett whispered.

"Mine." Topher's hand settled on Beckett's hip, thumb brushing the jut of bone. "You're mine, Beckett Marlow. You have been since the first time you challenged me in that training yard and I realized I'd rather lose to you than win against anyone else."

Beckett's eyes burned, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. "That's a fucked-up thing to say to someone who's never been anyone's."

"Then let me be the first." Topher leaned down, pressing his forehead to Beckett's. "Let me be the only one."

Beckett's voice broke. "Yeah. Okay. Yeah."

Topher kissed him again, and this time there was nothing gentle about it. It was fire and starlight and three years of want finally finding its way out of both of them. Topher's hands were everywhere—sliding down Beckett's sides, gripping his thighs, pushing him open—and Beckett let him, arching into the touch, desperate for more.

"I want you," Beckett gasped against Topher's mouth. "I want you to—fuck, Topher, I need you—"

"I know." Topher's hand slid between them, palm pressing against the growing hardness in Beckett's trousers, and Beckett's hips bucked into the touch. "I know, baby. I've got you."

Beckett moaned at the endearment, the word settling somewhere deep in his chest. Topher worked his trousers open, and Beckett's breath came in short, sharp gasps as Topher's hand wrapped around him, warm and sure.

"Fuck," Beckett breathed. "Fuck, Topher—"

"You're so hard for me," Topher murmured, stroking him slow and deliberate. "Been thinking about this, haven't you? About me touching you like this?"

"Every night," Beckett admitted, the confession spilling out like a flood. "Every goddamn night for three years."

Topher made a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, and leaned down to take Beckett into his mouth. Beckett's back arched off the mattress, a broken sound tearing from his throat as Topher's tongue traced the length of him, slow and worshipful.

"Oh, fuck," Beckett gasped, his hand fisting in Topher's dark hair. "Oh, fuck, Topher—"

Topher hummed around him, the vibration sending sparks up Beckett's spine, and Beckett's fire flared so bright the air around them shimmered. But Topher didn't pull away—he just took him deeper, one hand gripping Beckett's thigh, holding him open and helpless.

"You're going to kill me," Beckett managed, his voice wrecked. "You're going to—I can't—"

Topher pulled off just long enough to say, "You can. You can take it, Beck. I know you can." Then he was swallowing him down again, and Beckett's head fell back, his eyes squeezed shut, his whole body trembling on the edge.

"I'm close," he warned, his voice barely a whisper. "Topher, I'm—"

Topher pulled off, his lips red and slick, and Beckett almost sobbed at the loss. "Not yet," Topher said, his voice rough. "I want to be inside you when you come."

Beckett's heart stuttered. "You—"

"Unless you don't want that."

"I want it." The words came out desperate, raw. "Fuck, Topher, I want it so bad I can't think straight."

Topher's smile was slow and warm, and he leaned down to kiss Beckett, letting him taste himself on Topher's tongue. Beckett moaned into the kiss, his hands sliding down Topher's back, gripping his hips, pulling him close.

"Do you have—" Beckett started, and Topher cut him off with a nod.

"In my jacket pocket. I didn't—I wasn't sure, but I hoped."

Beckett's throat went tight. "You hoped."

"I've been hoping for three years." Topher pressed a kiss to Beckett's jaw, his stubble scratching against Beckett's skin. "Let me make it good for you, Beck. Let me take care of you."

Beckett nodded, not trusting his voice. Topher pulled back just long enough to retrieve the small bottle from his jacket, and Beckett watched him, heart pounding, as Topher coated his fingers with slick.

"Tell me if it's too much," Topher said, his voice low and steady. "Tell me and I'll stop."

"I will." Beckett's hand found Topher's wrist, squeezing. "I trust you."

The words landed like a blow. Topher's eyes went bright, almost wet, and he leaned down to kiss Beckett, soft and tender, as his first finger pressed inside.

Beckett gasped, his body tensing, and Topher held still, letting him adjust. "Okay?"

"Yeah." Beckett's voice was strained. "Yeah, just—give me a second."

Topher waited, patient as stone, his thumb tracing slow circles on Beckett's hip. Beckett's fire flickered around them, wild and restless, and Topher didn't flinch—he just watched, his grey eyes soft, his starlight pulsing in time with Beckett's heartbeat.

"You're doing so well," Topher murmured. "So good for me, Beck."

Beckett's breath hitched, and he pushed into the touch, asking for more. Topher obliged, adding a second finger, curling them just right, and Beckett's whole body shuddered.

"There," he gasped. "Right there—fuck—"

"I found it," Topher said, a smile in his voice. He pressed against the spot again, and Beckett's hips bucked, a broken moan spilling from his lips. "There you are. That's it, baby. Let me hear you."

Beckett was beyond shame, beyond words, his head thrown back and his mouth open as Topher worked him open with careful, deliberate strokes. The stretch burned, but it was a good burn, a wanting burn, and Beckett couldn't get enough.

"Please," he begged, his voice wrecked. "Topher, please, I need—"

"I know what you need." Topher pulled his fingers out, and Beckett whimpered at the loss. "I've got you."

Topher's own trousers were open, and Beckett caught a glimpse of him—thick, flushed, leaking—and his mouth went dry. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're—that's going to—"

"It's going to fit," Topher said, his voice low and certain. "I'm going to make it fit. You're going to take all of me, Beck, and you're going to love it."

Beckett's fire blazed, and he pulled Topher down into a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. Topher kissed him back just as hard, one hand gripping Beckett's thigh, guiding it up and open.

"Ready?" Topher asked, his forehead pressed to Beckett's.

"Yes," Beckett breathed. "Fuck, yes—"

Topher pushed in, slow and deliberate, and Beckett's whole body seized. The stretch was overwhelming, a burning fullness that stole his breath, and Topher held still, letting him adjust, his starlight pulsing warm and steady around them.

"Breathe," Topher murmured. "You're doing so well, Beck. So fucking perfect."

Beckett dragged in a shaky breath, his nails digging into Topher's shoulders. "Move," he managed. "Please, just—move."

Topher pulled out almost all the way, then pushed back in, and Beckett cried out, his back arching off the mattress. The sensation was electric, fire and starlight and pure, overwhelming pleasure, and Beckett's hands clawed at Topher's back as he found a rhythm.

"That's it," Topher groaned, his voice rough. "That's it, baby. Take all of me."

Beckett couldn't speak, couldn't think, could only feel. Each thrust hit that spot inside him, white-hot and devastating, and he was shaking, his whole body trembling on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

"I'm close," he gasped. "Topher, I'm—"

"Not yet." Topher's hand wrapped around him, stroking in time with his thrusts. "I want to feel you come around me. I want to watch you fall apart."

Beckett's eyes rolled back, his fire blazing bright and wild, and Topher's starlight rose to meet it, wrapping around them both like a net. The sensation was unbearable, beautiful, too much and not enough, and Beckett was falling, falling, falling—

"Topher—"

"I've got you," Topher breathed against his mouth. "I've got you, Beck. Let go."

Beckett came with a broken cry, his body clenching around Topher, and Topher followed a heartbeat later, his own release spilling hot and deep. They clung to each other, shaking, breathing hard, the starlight and fire braided around them like a promise.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The old mill was quiet, save for the sound of their breathing and the river running past outside. Beckett's hand found Topher's, their fingers intertwining, and Topher pressed a kiss to his knuckles.

"You're still here," Beckett whispered, his voice rough.

Topher's thumb traced the curve of Beckett's knuckles, slow and unhurried, like he was memorizing the shape of him. The starlight had dimmed to a soft shimmer, barely visible against the dark, and Beckett's fire had banked to embers, glowing faintly along his skin.

"I told you I wasn't going anywhere."

Beckett's laugh was rough, almost broken. "Yeah, well. People say a lot of things."

"I'm not people." Topher shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at him. The moonlight caught his grey eyes, turning them silver, and his freckles were still glowing faintly along his neck and chest. "I'm the man who's been waiting three years to have you exactly like this. You think I'm going to waste it?"

Beckett's throat tightened. He reached up, fingers brushing the glowing freckles on Topher's collarbone, and Topher's breath caught at the touch.

"They're still glowing," Beckett said, his voice barely audible.

"They'll glow all night if you keep looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something you're afraid to lose."

The words landed hard in Beckett's chest. He opened his mouth to deflect, to turn it into a joke, but nothing came out. Topher just watched him, patient as ever, and Beckett felt the walls he'd spent years building start to crumble.

"I don't know how to do this," he admitted, the words scraping out of him. "I don't know how to—to let someone stay."

"You don't have to know." Topher's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. "You just have to let me."

Beckett's eyes burned. He blinked hard, looking away, but Topher caught his chin, gently turning him back.

"Hey. Look at me."

Beckett did, and the weight of what he saw there—the patience, the want, the terrifying, undeniable certainty—made his breath stutter.

"I'm not going to disappear," Topher said, his voice low and steady. "I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and decide this was a mistake. I've been yours for three years, Beck. The only thing that's changed is that now you know it."

Beckett's fire flared, a wild burst of heat that had nothing to do with anger. Topher didn't flinch. He just smiled, slow and warm, and leaned down to kiss him, soft and tender.

"I want to stay," Topher murmured against his lips. "I want to fall asleep with you and wake up with you and figure out what that looks like. But I need you to want it too."

Beckett's heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "I do." The words came out raw, desperate. "Fuck, Topher, I do. I just—I don't know how to—"

"Then we figure it out together." Topher's hand slid down, settling over Beckett's heart. "One day at a time. One night at a time. However long it takes."

Beckett's voice broke. "You really mean that."

"I really mean that."

For a long moment, Beckett just looked at him—the dark hair, the grey eyes, the faint glow of starlight still pulsing along his skin. And for the first time in three years, he let himself believe it.

Beckett let the belief settle into his bones, let it sit there warm and unfamiliar, and for a moment the mill was quiet except for the river's constant murmur against the stones. Topher's thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles, tracing the same path over and over, and Beckett found himself counting the repetitions the way he counted breaths in a fight—steady, grounding, something to hold onto.

"What happens tomorrow?" Beckett asked, and the question came out smaller than he'd intended, stripped of its usual armor of sarcasm and swagger.

Topher's hand stilled. Then it tightened around his, a warm, deliberate squeeze. "Tomorrow I wake up, and you're still here. Or you're not, because you slipped out before dawn like you always do, and I have to decide whether to chase you."

The words landed in the space between them, honest in a way that made Beckett's throat close. He'd done that—slipped out, more times than he could count, from beds and barracks and the arms of people who'd thought they meant something. The thought of doing it to Topher made something twist in his gut.

"I wouldn't—" he started, then stopped. Because he didn't know if that was true. He'd never stayed anywhere long enough to find out.

"I know," Topher said, and there was no judgment in his voice, just a quiet certainty that made Beckett's chest ache. "That's why I'm telling you now. I'll chase you, Beck. I'll chase you as far as you need to run, but I'd rather you didn't make me."

Beckett's laugh was wet and broken. "That's the most romantic shit anyone's ever said to me, and it's a threat."

"Is it working?"

"Yeah." Beckett dragged his free hand over his face, feeling the scrape of his own stubble, the heat still lingering in his skin. "Fuck, yeah, it's working. I don't—I don't want to run from you, Topher. I want to run toward you, and I don't know what to do with that."

"You stay." Topher said it simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You stay, and you let me stay, and we figure out the rest as it comes."

Beckett's fire flickered along his knuckles, a small, restless dance of flame that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the feeling swelling in his chest. Topher watched it, his grey eyes catching the light, and then he reached out and ran his fingers through the flames. They curled around his hand like a greeting, harmless, warm, and Beckett's breath caught at the sight.

"You're not burning," Beckett said, his voice rough with wonder.

"You're not letting me." Topher's fingers traced the path of the fire, up Beckett's wrist, leaving a trail of warmth that had nothing to do with magic. "You've always held back with me. Even when you were throwing everything you had at me in that yard, there was a part of you that pulled the punch."

Beckett's jaw tightened. "You noticed that."

"I noticed everything." Topher leaned in, pressing his forehead to Beckett's, and the starlight around them pulsed, silver and gold, a slow, steady heartbeat. "Every time you held back, every time you told yourself I wasn't worth the risk. I saw it all, Beck. And I waited anyway."

The tears Beckett had been holding back spilled over, hot and silent, tracking down his cheeks. He made a sound—something raw and broken—and Topher caught it with his mouth, kissing him soft and slow, tasting the salt of his tears.

"Don't cry," Topher murmured against his lips. "Or cry. I've got you either way."

Beckett laughed, a wet, shaky sound. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm yours."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, and he surged forward, catching Topher's mouth with his, kissing him with everything he had—all the fear and the want and the desperate, terrifying hope that had been building for three years. Topher kissed him back just as hard, pulling him close, and the starlight and fire braided together around them, a living thing, a promise made of light.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing hard, and Beckett's lips were swollen, and he couldn't stop smiling. It felt strange on his face, unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's clothes.

"I'm going to be shit at this," he warned. "I'm going to say the wrong thing and flinch at the right thing and probably try to start a fight with you at least once a week."

"I know." Topher's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. "I'm counting on it."

"And you still want to stay?"

"Beck." Topher's voice was low, patient, achingly certain. "I've been staying for three years. The only difference now is that you're finally staying with me."

Beckett's breath caught. He opened his mouth to say something—he didn't know what, maybe another deflection, another joke to break the weight of the moment—but what came out instead was, "I want to wake up with you."

The words hung in the air, raw and honest, and Topher's eyes went bright, almost wet. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Beckett's voice was barely there. "I want to see what you look like in the morning. I want to know if you snore. I want to—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "I want to know if I can do this. If I can be someone who stays."

Topher's smile was slow, warm, like the first crack of dawn breaking over the hills. "Then we'll find out together."

He shifted, pulling Beckett closer, and Beckett went willingly, letting himself be held. The old mattress creaked beneath them, and the river kept its steady rhythm outside, and Beckett's fire had banked to a low, contented glow, matching the starlight that still shimmered along Topher's skin.

"I should probably tell you," Beckett said, his voice muffled against Topher's chest, "that I've never done this. The staying thing. The—the being someone's thing."

"I know." Topher's hand traced lazy circles on Beckett's back. "I know, Beck. You told me."

"I mean it. I don't know how to be good at it."

"You don't have to be good at it. You just have to be here."

Beckett was quiet for a long moment, feeling the steady thrum of Topher's heartbeat against his cheek. Then he said, "I'm here."

"I know." Topher pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "I've got you."

They lay there in the quiet, the mill's shadows stretching long and soft around them, and Beckett let himself feel it—the warmth of Topher's body, the weight of his arm, the strange, unfamiliar safety of being held. He thought about the morning, about what it would mean to wake up and find Topher still there, about all the mornings after that. The thought made something in his chest crack open, wide and terrifying and full of light.

"Topher?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm going to try." Beckett's voice was rough, scraped raw with honesty. "I don't know how to be good at this, but I'm going to try. For you. For—" He stopped, swallowed. "For me."

Topher's arms tightened around him, and the starlight pulsed, bright and warm, wrapping around them both. "That's all I've ever wanted."

Beckett closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the words and the light and the man holding him settle into his bones. For the first time in three years, he didn't feel the urge to run. For the first time in his life, he thought he might know what it felt like to be home.

The quiet settled around them like river mist, soft and complete. Beckett lay with his cheek pressed to Topher's chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, feeling the rise and fall of each breath. The starlight had dimmed to a gentle shimmer along Topher's skin, silver freckles scattered across his collarbones and shoulders like someone had spilled a handful of stars across his olive skin and left them there to glow.

Beckett traced one with his fingertip, watching it pulse faintly under his touch. "You know, I've been trying to figure out what these are for three years."

"What they are?"

"Yeah. I thought they were just—marks. Like how some mages have birthmarks that flare when they cast. But yours move." Beckett's finger followed a trail of them down Topher's sternum, a crooked line of silver light. "I've watched them shift across your skin in the training yard. When you're angry, they cluster around your hands. When you're—" he hesitated, feeling heat creep up his own neck, "—when you're close to someone, they spread."

Topher's hand came up to rest over Beckett's, stilling his tracing. "You noticed that."

"I told you. I notice everything." Beckett said it with a smirk, but it came out softer than he meant it to. "It's just—they're doing something different tonight."

He pulled his hand free and sat up slightly, looking down at Topher's bare chest. The freckles were glowing brighter than he'd ever seen them, a constellation of silver light spread across the expanse of skin. But they weren't scattered randomly anymore. They were forming a pattern, a deliberate arrangement of points and lines, like someone was slowly drawing a map across Topher's body.

Beckett's breath caught.

He knew that pattern.

He'd seen it traced in spell diagrams and constellation charts, had spent hours of his childhood memorizing the shape of it in old grimoires. It was a name, written in the old tongue, the letters formed from points of light connected by lines of silver.

His name.

"Topher." Beckett's voice came out rough, scraped raw. "Your freckles are spelling my name."

Topher went still beneath him, the easy warmth of his body turning rigid. "What?"

"Look." Beckett gestured at his chest, at the constellation burning there. "That's—that's B-E-C-K. In the old script. It's—" He laughed, a sound that was half wonder and half disbelief. "It's my fucking name, Topher. Written in stars across your chest."

Topher's hand came up, pressing flat against his own sternum as if he could feel the pattern burning beneath his palm. His grey eyes went wide, catching the silver light, and for a long moment he just stared down at his own skin like he'd never seen it before.

"I didn't—" He stopped, swallowed. "I never noticed. I mean, I knew they moved, but I never—"

"Your magic has been spelling my name on your body for three years and you never noticed?"

"I don't exactly spend a lot of time staring at my own chest, Beck." But Topher's voice was strange, distant, like he was hearing something echo that Beckett couldn't. "I knew they were doing something. I could feel them sometimes, when you were near. A kind of—pulling. Like they wanted to reach for you."

Beckett's fire flickered along his knuckles, an instinctive response to the sudden tightness in his chest. "Three years."

"Three years." Topher's hand was still pressed to his sternum, and his fingers were trembling, just slightly. "Every time I told myself I was being an idiot, that you were just my rival, that there was nothing there—they were spelling your name. The whole time."

Beckett sat back on his heels, staring at the constellation burning silver against Topher's skin. The letters were unmistakable now that he knew what he was looking for, each point of light a star that had been charting his name across Topher's chest for longer than either of them had been brave enough to say a single true word to each other.

"That's not normal, right?" Beckett asked. "That's not something fire mages or star mages just—do."

"I don't know." Topher's voice was barely there. "I've never heard of it. Magic that moves on its own, that writes words, that—" He stopped, and when he looked up at Beckett, his eyes were wet. "That knows something before I did."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and strange and somehow sacred. Beckett reached out, his fingers hovering over the glowing letters, not quite touching.

"Can I—"

Topher nodded, a small, jerky motion.

Beckett pressed his palm flat against Topher's chest, over the constellation of his own name. The starlight flared under his touch, bright and warm, and he felt it—a pulse, like a heartbeat, like the magic was alive and glad he was finally here. His own fire rose to meet it, golden flame curling around his fingers, and the two magics braided together the way they had all night, silver and gold, light and heat.

"It's been waiting for you," Topher said, his voice rough with wonder. "All this time. It's been waiting for you to touch it."

Beckett's throat closed. He couldn't look away from the sight of his name burning silver on Topher's skin, couldn't stop feeling the way the magic hummed under his palm, like a cat finally getting pet after years of being ignored.

"I don't deserve this," he heard himself say. "I don't—I've been such an asshole, Topher. Three years of pushing you away, of pretending I didn't—"

"Beck." Topher's hand came up, warm over his, pressing it harder against his chest. "Your name has been written on my skin for years. I think we're past the part where you get to tell me what you don't deserve."

Beckett laughed, wet and broken. "Your magic is a romantic sap. You know that, right? It's been pining after me longer than you have."

"Is that what this is?" Topher looked down at the constellation, a strange, wondering expression on his face. "Pining?"

"What else would you call three years of spelling someone's name on yourself?"

Topher was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of Beckett's hand. The starlight pulsed gently under their joined palms, steady as a heartbeat.

"I think," he said slowly, "it's a promise."

Beckett's breath caught. "A promise?"

"I told you I've been staying for three years. I didn't realize I meant it literally." Topher's free hand came up to cup Beckett's jaw, tilting his face up. "My magic knew before I did. It was already yours. It's been yours this whole time."

The words landed like a blow, knocking the air out of Beckett's lungs. He stared at Topher, at the silver light spilling across his skin, at the grey eyes that were looking at him like he was something precious and impossible and worth keeping.

"I don't know what to do with that," Beckett admitted, his voice small. "I don't know how to be someone who's been—claimed. Like that. Without even knowing it."

"You don't have to do anything." Topher's thumb brushed across his cheekbone, gentle, reverent. "It's already done. It's been done. All you have to do is stay."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, wrapping around them both in a spiral of golden light. The starlight rose to meet it, silver and gold weaving together until the old mill was filled with the braided glow of both their magics, a living thing, a promise made of light.

And in the center of it all, Beckett's name burned bright across Topher's chest, a constellation that had been waiting years to be seen.

The braided light held them for a long, suspended moment, silver and gold spiraling up toward the rafters of the old mill, and Beckett felt something in his chest crack open—something he'd been holding shut for years, something he hadn't even known was locked. He pressed his palm harder against the constellation on Topher's chest, feeling the pulse of it under his skin, and his fire surged to meet it, brighter, hungrier, like it had been starving for this exact contact.

"Topher." His voice came out wrecked, and he didn't care. "I need you to understand something. I've never—I've never let anyone see me like this. Not once. Not ever."

Topher's grey eyes held his, steady and warm, and his hand came up to cup the back of Beckett's neck, fingers threading through the copper mess of his hair. "I know."

"No, you don't." Beckett shook his head, the motion jerky, desperate. "I've built this whole—this whole thing, this armor, this act, and you just—" He gestured at his own chest, at the fire still curling along his ribs. "You walked through it. You didn't even break it. You just walked through it like it wasn't there."

"It wasn't." Topher's thumb traced the line of Beckett's jaw, slow and deliberate. "Not to me. I've been seeing you for three years, Beck. The real you. The one who stays late to help the junior mages with their forms. The one who leaves food for the strays behind the kitchens. The one who thinks nobody notices."

Beckett's throat worked. "You noticed."

"I noticed everything." Topher's voice was low, rough, intimate. "I noticed the way your fire flares when you're nervous, not just when you're angry. I noticed the way you bite your lip when you're thinking about something you don't want to say out loud. I noticed the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking."

The fire along Beckett's ribs stuttered, flickered, and then burned brighter than ever. "That's—that's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"You can't just—" Beckett's voice broke, and he had to stop, had to breathe, had to find some piece of himself that wasn't falling apart. "You can't just see me like that. It's not fair. I've been hiding for so long, Topher. I've been so careful."

"I know you have." Topher pulled him closer, until Beckett's forehead rested against his own, until the silver light of the constellation was the only thing between them. "And I'm sorry. I'm sorry you had to hide. I'm sorry I didn't say something sooner. I'm sorry I let you think you had to be anyone other than exactly who you are."

"I don't even know who I am without the act." The words came out before Beckett could stop them, raw and honest and terrifying. "I've been playing a part for so long I don't know where the mask ends and I begin."

Topher's hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones, and the touch was so gentle it made Beckett's chest ache. "Then let me help you figure it out. Let me be there while you do. I'm not asking you to know who you are tonight, Beck. I'm asking you to let me stay while you find out."

The old mill creaked around them, the river murmuring beyond the walls, and Beckett could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him—the weight of three years of wanting, of pretending, of pushing away the one person who had ever actually seen him. He could feel the constellation burning against his palm, his name written in light across Topher's skin, and he realized, with a sudden, dizzying clarity, that this was real. This was actually happening. Topher Kaelen, the star mage who had been his rival, his obsession, his secret, desperate want for three years, was looking at him like he was the most precious thing in the world.

"I'm scared," Beckett admitted, the words barely a whisper. "I'm so fucking scared, Topher."

"I know." Topher's voice was steady, unshakeable. "I'm scared too."

"You are?"

"Terrified." Topher laughed, a low, warm sound. "I've been terrified for three years. Terrified you'd never see me. Terrified that if I said something, you'd run. Terrified that I'd spend my whole life wanting you from across a training yard."

Beckett's fire flickered, softened, and he leaned into Topher's touch like a plant turning toward the sun. "I'm not running."

"I know."

Beckett's breath came out slow, deliberate, the way he'd learned to breathe before a difficult casting. He kept his palm on the constellation, feeling the silver pulse beneath his skin, and let the weight of Topher's certainty settle into his bones. "You keep saying that. Like you actually believe it."

"I do." Topher's thumb traced the line of Beckett's jaw again, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and meant to spend every second of it here. "I've believed it for three years. I just didn't know how to say it."

Beckett's fire curled along his ribs, warm and restless, and he pressed closer, until the silver letters of his name were warm against his own chest. "You're going to be insufferable about this, aren't you? All that patience, all that waiting—you're going to make me pay for every year I made you wait."

"Every single one." Topher's voice was low, rough, and there was something in it that made Beckett's stomach tighten. "I've got a list, Beck. Three years of things I wanted to say to you. Three years of things I wanted to do to you. I intend to work through all of it."

The fire in Beckett's chest stuttered, then burned hotter. "That's—that's a threat, right? That's you threatening me?"

"That's me promising you." Topher's grey eyes held his, steady and dark. "You said you don't know who you are without the act. I'm going to show you. Every piece of you that you've been hiding, I'm going to find it and I'm going to keep it safe."

Beckett's throat closed. He opened his mouth to deflect, to crack a joke, to do anything to break the unbearable tenderness of the moment—but what came out instead was, "What if you don't like what you find?"

The words landed raw and honest, and he couldn't take them back, couldn't hide behind the smirk that had been his armor for so long. Topher's hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and the touch was so gentle it made Beckett's chest ache.

"I've been watching you for three years, Beck. I've seen you at your worst—snapping at junior mages, burning through spellwork in a temper, sulking in the corner of the mess hall when you think no one's looking." Topher's voice was quiet, certain. "I've seen all of it. And I'm still here. I'm still spelling your name across my chest without even knowing it."

Beckett laughed, a wet, broken sound. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, and it's about me being an asshole."

"You're not an asshole." Topher's thumb brushed across his cheekbone. "You're scared. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Yeah." Topher leaned in, pressing his forehead to Beckett's, their breath mingling in the space between. "An asshole doesn't stay late to help the junior mages. An asshole doesn't leave food for the strays. An asshole doesn't—" He stopped, and Beckett felt the words catch in his throat. "An asshole doesn't look at me the way you do when you think I'm not paying attention."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, and he surged forward, kissing Topher with a desperation that surprised even him. It wasn't the careful, measured kiss of earlier—it was hungry, claiming, a confession in itself. Topher made a low sound against his mouth and pulled him closer, one hand fisting in Beckett's hair, the other pressed flat against the small of his back.

The starlight on Topher's chest flared brighter, the letters of Beckett's name burning silver against his skin, and Beckett felt his own fire rise to meet it, golden flame curling around them both. The braided light filled the old mill, silver and gold spiraling up toward the rafters, and Beckett poured everything he couldn't say into the kiss—the three years of wanting, the fear, the desperate, terrifying hope that this was real.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Beckett's forehead rested against Topher's, and he could feel the constellation burning warm against his own chest. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, his voice rough. "I don't know how to be someone's—anything. I've never been anyone's anything."

"You don't have to know." Topher's hand was warm on his back, steady and sure. "You just have to stay."

Beckett's throat worked. "And if I don't know how to do that either?"

"Then I'll teach you." Topher's voice was quiet, certain. "I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

The words settled into Beckett's chest, warm and strange and terrifying. He pressed his palm flat against the constellation on Topher's chest, feeling the silver pulse beneath his fingers, his name written in light across the skin of the man who had been his rival, his obsession, his secret, desperate want for three years.

"Your magic really has been spelling my name this whole time." It wasn't a question. Beckett couldn't make it one.

"It has." Topher's hand came up to cover his, pressing it harder against his sternum. "I didn't know. I swear I didn't know. But it's been—" He stopped, and Beckett felt him take a shaky breath. "It's been reaching for you. The whole time. I just didn't have the eyes to see it."

Beckett's fire flickered, softened, and he leaned into the warmth of Topher's body, letting himself be held. "What does it mean? Magic that writes a name. Magic that reaches."

"I don't know." Topher's voice was barely there. "I've never heard of anything like it. But I think—" He stopped, and when he spoke again, his voice was rough with wonder. "I think it means my magic chose you. Before I did. Before I was brave enough to."

The words hung between them, heavy and strange and somehow sacred. Beckett pressed his face into the curve of Topher's neck, breathing in the scent of smoke and cedar, feeling the silver light pulse against his cheek.

"That's terrifying," he whispered.

"I know." Topher's arms tightened around him. "I'm terrified too."

"But you're staying."

"I'm staying." Topher pressed a kiss to the top of his head, gentle and reverent. "I've been staying for three years, Beck. I'm not going to stop now."

Beckett's fire curled around them both, warm and bright, and he let himself sink into the embrace, let himself believe, just for a moment, that this was real. That he was allowed to have this. That the man holding him had been spelling his name across his own chest for three years without even knowing it, and that was the most beautiful, terrifying, impossible thing Beckett had ever heard.

"What happens tomorrow?" he asked, the words muffled against Topher's skin. "When we have to go back to the academy, back to being rivals in front of everyone?"

Topher was quiet for a long moment. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know how to be your rival anymore. I don't know how to pretend I don't want you when your name is written across my chest in starlight."

Beckett laughed, a small, broken sound. "That's going to be a problem. You can't exactly walk into the training yard with B-E-C-K glowing on your sternum."

"I could." Topher's voice was dry. "It would certainly make a statement."

"A statement that gets us both kicked out of the academy, maybe." Beckett pulled back just enough to look at him, at the silver letters still burning across his chest. "We need to figure out how to hide this. At least until we decide—" He stopped, swallowed. "Until we decide what we're doing."

Topher's hand came up to cup his jaw, tilting his face up. "I know what I'm doing."

"Topher—"

"I'm staying, Beck. I told you. I've been staying for three years, and I'm not going to stop now." Topher's grey eyes held his, steady and sure. "We'll figure out the rest. Together."

Beckett's throat closed. He wanted to argue, wanted to point out all the ways this could go wrong, all the reasons they should be careful, should be smart, should protect themselves from the fallout of being caught. But the words died in his throat, because Topher was looking at him like he was something precious, and Beckett couldn't remember the last time anyone had looked at him like that.

"Okay," he said, the word barely a whisper. "Okay."

Topher's smile was slow, warm, and Beckett felt it in his chest like a physical thing. "Okay."

The old mill creaked around them, the river murmuring beyond the walls, and Beckett let himself be held, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something he'd been too afraid to hope for. The constellation burned silver against his cheek, his name written in light across Topher's chest, and for the first time in three years, Beckett didn't want to run.

He wanted to stay.

Beckett caught Topher's hand before it could fall away from his chest. The movement was sudden, almost desperate, and he felt Topher go still beneath his grip. The fire in his own chest banked low, waiting, as he pressed Topher's palm flat against his sternum, over the place where his heart beat a wild, uneven rhythm.

"Feel that?" Beckett's voice came out rough, scraped raw. "Your magic's been spelling my name. But mine—" He stopped, swallowed. "Mine's been reaching for you too. The whole time. I just didn't know what it meant."

Topher's palm was warm against his skin, calloused from years of grip work and spellcasting. Beckett felt the heat of it seep through his shirt, felt the slight tremor in those steady fingers. The silver light on Topher's chest flared, bright and urgent, and Beckett watched the letters of his name pulse against Topher's skin like a second heartbeat.

"Your fire," Topher said, his voice low and wondering. "It's—"

"It's humming." Beckett laughed, a short, breathless sound. "It's been humming for three years, every time you walked into a room. Every time you looked at me. I thought it was just—I don't know. Rivalry. Chemistry. Something I could burn off." He pressed Topher's hand harder against his chest. "It wasn't."

Topher's grey eyes were dark, fixed on him. "What was it?"

"You." Beckett's throat worked. "It was you. It's always been you."

The starlight flared again, brighter this time, and Beckett felt the constellation shift beneath Topher's palm—not burning hotter, but pulling. Leaning. The letters of his name curved toward the warmth of Topher's own hand, like flowers turning to sun. Beckett stared at it, his breath catching.

"Topher." His voice cracked. "Look."

Topher looked down. His hand was still pressed to Beckett's chest, but his eyes were fixed on the constellation, on the way the silver light was moving. The letters were still B-E-C-K, but they were no longer still—they shimmered, rippling like water, reaching toward the point where his palm met Beckett's skin.

"It's responding," Topher breathed. "To the fire. To—" He looked up at Beckett, and there was something raw in his face, something unguarded. "To you."

"I don't—" Beckett's voice failed. He tried again. "I don't understand what this means. What we are. What my magic has been doing to yours—"

"It's not doing anything to mine." Topher's hand curled against his sternum, fingers pressing into the muscle. "It's doing something with mine. They're—" He stopped, searching for the word. "They're braiding. Intertwining. Like they've been trying to find each other this whole time."

Beckett's fire flared, golden and bright, curling up his chest and around Topher's wrist. He felt the heat of it, the familiar burn, but it didn't hurt—it never hurt, not with Topher. It wrapped around Topher's hand like a welcome, like a homecoming, and Beckett watched the silver and gold spiral together, weaving a pattern neither of them had ever seen before.

"Three years," Beckett whispered. "Three years of pretending I didn't want to—that I didn't—" He broke off, shaking his head. "I'm so tired of pretending."

"Then stop." Topher's voice was quiet, certain. "I'm not asking you to be anyone else. I'm asking you to be here. With me."

Beckett's throat closed. He wanted to say something—anything—to break the unbearable tenderness of the moment, to hide behind the smirk that had been his armor for so long. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Topher's, and let himself feel the warmth of him, the solid reality of him.

"I don't know how to be anyone's anything," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I've never had to try."

"You don't have to try." Topher's hand slid from his chest to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair. "You just have to stay."

Beckett's fire fluttered, softened. "And if I don't know how?"

"Then I'll teach you." Topher pressed a kiss to his forehead, gentle and reverent. "I told you. I'm not going anywhere."

Beckett's hand was still pressed against Topher's chest, and he felt the constellation pulse beneath his palm—not just bright, but hungry. The silver letters shifted, curling toward his fingers like they were trying to climb into his skin. He watched them, mesmerized, as the light bent and reformed, the B stretching, the E curving, the C and K twisting into shapes that made his breath catch.

"Topher." His voice was barely there. "Your name. It's—"

Topher looked down. The letters were no longer B-E-C-K. They were shifting, realigning, the silver light flowing like liquid across his skin, and Beckett watched as the new word took shape—a word that wasn't his name, wasn't Topher's name, but something else entirely.

Beckett's fire stuttered. The word was glowing, pulsing, and he couldn't look away.

"What does it say?" he heard himself ask.

Topher's hand was shaking against his chest. When he spoke, his voice was rough, barely a sound.

"Mine."

The word sat against Topher's skin like a claim staked in silver light, and Beckett's fire stuttered, then surged, wrapping around Topher's wrist in a coil of gold that pulsed in time with the letters. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't look away from the word that had replaced his name—Mine—glowing there, written in starlight across Topher's chest, a word that wasn't either of their names but somehow contained them both.

"That's not—" Beckett's voice came out strange, hollowed. "That's not your name. That's not anything."

"It's everything." Topher's hand curled against his sternum, fingers pressing into the muscle beneath the glowing word. "It's what you are to me. What I am to you. It's been true for three years, and my magic finally found the word for it."

Beckett's throat worked. The fire in his chest was humming so hard he could feel it in his teeth, a vibration that ran down his spine and settled low in his belly. He pressed his own hand over Topher's, trapping it there, feeling the heat of Topher's palm through the glow of the constellation.

"You can't just—" He stopped. Swallowed. "You can't just claim me like that. Not with a word. Not with magic I don't understand."

"I'm not claiming you." Topher's grey eyes were steady, darker than he'd ever seen them. "I'm telling you what already is. My magic's been spelling your name for months. Now it's spelling what you mean. That's not a claim, Beckett. That's a confession."

The word pulsed again, brighter, and Beckett felt it like a second heartbeat against his palm. Mine. The letters curved and shifted, silver light rippling like water, and he watched them reach toward his fingers, toward the point where his skin met Topher's. The fire in his chest answered, a golden thread curling up his throat and across his collarbone, and he felt it reach for Topher's chest in return.

"Your fire," Topher said, voice rough. "It's doing something."

Beckett looked down. The golden light was weaving through the silver, threading between the letters of the word, and he watched as the constellation began to shift again. The M stretched, the I curved, the N and E folded and reformed—and Beckett's breath caught as the word changed, the silver and gold braiding together into something new.

"What does it say now?" he heard himself ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Topher's hand was shaking against his chest. He looked down at the word, at the way the light was moving, and his breath came out in a rush.

"Us."

Beckett's breath came out in a rush, and he looked down at the word burning silver against Topher's skin — *Us* — and something in his chest cracked open, wide and terrifying and full of light. He pressed his palm harder against it, feeling the pulse of it beneath his fingers, and his fire surged to meet it, golden flame curling around the letters like it was trying to hold them in place.

"Us," he repeated, tasting the word. It was strange on his tongue, unfamiliar, like wearing someone else's clothes. But it fit. Somehow, impossibly, it fit.

Topher's hand came up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Yeah." His voice was rough, scraped raw with wonder. "Us."

Beckett leaned into the touch, letting himself be held by it, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. The old mill creaked around them, the river murmuring its endless song beyond the walls, and the braided light of their magics pulsed gently above them, silver and gold, a living thing that had finally found its name.

Then Beckett's fire flickered, and he pulled back just enough to look at Topher, a slow grin spreading across his face. It felt strange, unfamiliar, like a muscle he hadn't used in years. "So," he said, his drawl slipping back into place like armor, "you mentioned a list."

Topher blinked. "A list?"

"Yeah. The one you've been keeping for three years." Beckett's fire curled along his knuckles, a small, restless dance of flame. "All the things you wanted to say to me. All the things you wanted to do to me." He arched an eyebrow, letting the smirk settle onto his face like a familiar weight. "I believe you said you intended to work through all of it."

Topher's grey eyes went dark, and Beckett felt the starlight on his chest pulse, bright and urgent. "You remember that."

"I remember everything you say to me." Beckett shifted, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at Topher with a heat that had nothing to do with his fire. "I've been cataloging it for three years. Every word. Every look. Every time you made my chest do that stupid thing."

"What stupid thing?"

"You know." Beckett's voice dropped, rough and low. "That thing where I couldn't breathe. Where my fire went all haywire and I had to pretend I wasn't about to combust in the middle of the training yard."

Topher's breath caught. "That was you?"

"That was always me." Beckett's hand came up, fingers tracing the line of Topher's jaw, feeling the warmth of his skin. "Every time you looked at me like that — like I was something worth seeing — my fire went crazy. I thought it was just — I don't know. Chemistry. Rivalry." He laughed, a short, breathless sound. "Turns out it was you. It was always you."

Topher's hand came up to cover his, pressing it against his cheek. "Beck."

"So." Beckett's voice was steady, but his heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat. "What's first?"

Topher's eyes searched his, grey and dark and full of something that made Beckett's chest ache. "You want to know what's first?"

"I want to know everything." Beckett leaned in, his forehead pressing against Topher's, their breath mingling in the space between. "I want to know every stupid thing you've been holding onto for three years. I want to hear all of it."

Topher was quiet for a long moment, and Beckett could feel the weight of the pause, the way the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken things. Then Topher's hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and he pulled Beckett down into a kiss.

It wasn't like the others. It wasn't desperate or hungry or frantic. It was slow, deliberate, a kiss that spoke in a language Beckett didn't know the words for but understood anyway. It was a kiss that said *I've been waiting for this* and *I'm not going anywhere* and *you are the most important thing in the world to me* — all of it, tangled up in the press of lips and the warmth of breath and the steady, certain weight of Topher's hands.

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, wrapping around them both in a spiral of golden light. The starlight on Topher's chest pulsed in answer, the word *Us* burning brighter than ever, and Beckett felt it — the braid of their magics, silver and gold, weaving together until he couldn't tell where his fire ended and Topher's light began.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Beckett's forehead rested against Topher's, and he could feel the constellation burning warm against his own chest. "That," he said, his voice rough, "was not an answer."

"It was." Topher's thumb traced the line of his jaw, slow and reverent. "The list is — it's not about the things I wanted to do to you, Beck. It's about the things I wanted to be to you."

Beckett's breath caught. "What things?"

"Someone you could trust." Topher's voice was low, steady. "Someone you could lean on without wondering if they were going to disappear. Someone who would see you — all of you — and not flinch."

Beckett's throat closed. He opened his mouth to deflect, to crack a joke, to do anything to break the unbearable tenderness of the moment — but what came out instead was, "That's — that's not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know." Beckett laughed, a wet, broken sound. "Something dirtier, maybe. Something with less —" He gestured vaguely at his own chest. "Less of this."

"This?"

"This." Beckett's hand came up, pressing flat against Topher's chest, over the word still glowing there. "This feeling like I'm being seen for the first time in my life. This feeling like I matter."

Topher's hand came up to cover his, pressing it harder against his sternum. "You do matter. You've always mattered."

Beckett's fire flickered, softened, and he leaned into the warmth of Topher's body, letting himself be held. "I don't know what to do with that," he admitted. "I've spent so long telling myself I didn't need anyone. That I was better off alone. That the wanting was just — I don't know — a weakness I had to burn out."

"And now?"

"Now I'm starting to think I was wrong." Beckett's voice was barely there. "I'm starting to think the wanting was the only true thing I've ever felt."

Topher's arms tightened around him, and the starlight pulsed, bright and warm, wrapping around them both. "It was true," he said, his voice rough. "It was always true. I just didn't know how to say it."

Beckett pressed his face into the curve of Topher's neck, breathing in the scent of smoke and cedar, feeling the silver light pulse against his cheek. "So what's the rest of the list?"

Topher was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I wanted to tell you that I noticed. All of it. The way you stay late to help the junior mages. The way you leave food for the strays. The way you pretend you don't care about anything, when really you care about everything."

Beckett's breath caught. "You —"

"I wanted to tell you that I've never met anyone like you. That I've never wanted anyone the way I want you. That I've spent three years watching you and wanting you and telling myself I was being an idiot, because there was no way someone like you would ever want someone like me."

"Topher." Beckett's voice cracked. "Stop."

"I wanted to tell you that I'm scared too. That I don't know how to do this any better than you do. That I've never let anyone in either, and the thought of letting you in — really letting you in — terrifies me."

"Topher —"

"But I'm more scared of not trying." Topher's hand came up to cup his jaw, tilting his face up. "I'm more scared of spending the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I'd just been brave enough to say something."

Beckett's eyes burned, and he blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. "That's — that's a lot of things."

"That's the list." Topher's voice was soft, almost tender. "That's all of it."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, and he surged forward, catching Topher's mouth with his, kissing him with everything he had — all the fear and the want and the desperate, terrifying hope that had been building for three years. Topher kissed him back just as hard, pulling him close, and the starlight and fire braided together around them, a living thing, a promise made of light.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathing hard, Beckett's forehead rested against Topher's, and he could feel the word *Us* burning warm against his own chest. "Okay," he said, his voice rough. "Okay. I'm in."

Topher's breath caught. "You're in?"

"I'm in." Beckett's hand came up, fingers tracing the line of Topher's jaw. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be someone's anything. But I'm in. I'm —" He stopped, swallowed. "I'm yours."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and strange and somehow sacred. Topher's eyes went bright, almost wet, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Beckett's, the starlight on his chest pulsing like a second heartbeat.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"I'm yours." Beckett's voice was steady, sure. "I've been yours for three years. I just didn't know how to say it."

Topher kissed him again, soft and tender, and Beckett let himself be held, let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something he'd been too afraid to hope for. The constellation burned silver against his chest, the word *Us* glowing bright and true, and for the first time in three years, Beckett didn't want to run.

He wanted to stay.

The braided light held them for a long, suspended moment, silver and gold spiraling up toward the rafters of the old mill, and Beckett felt something settle in his chest — something warm and steady and unfamiliar. He pressed his palm flat against the word on Topher's chest, feeling the pulse of it beneath his skin, and his fire surged to meet it, brighter, hungrier, like it had been starving for this exact contact.

"So," he said, his drawl slipping back into place like armor, "what's next on the list?"

Topher's grey eyes went dark, and his hand slid down Beckett's side, fingers catching the waistband of his trousers. "I wanted to do this," he said, his voice low and rough. "I wanted to take you apart with my hands and my mouth until you forgot your own name. I wanted to learn every sound you make, every way your body moves, every place that makes you fall apart."

Beckett's breath caught. "That's — that's a lot of things."

"I told you. Three years." Topher's hand slid lower, palm pressing against the growing hardness in Beckett's trousers. "I've had a lot of time to think about it."

Beckett's fire flared, bright and wild, and he surged forward, catching Topher's mouth with his, kissing him with a desperation that surprised even him. "Then show me," he gasped against Topher's lips. "Show me everything."

Topher's smile was slow, warm, like the first crack of dawn breaking over the hills. "I intend to."

His hand slid into Beckett's trousers, fingers wrapping around him, and Beckett's head fell back, a broken sound tearing from his throat. The starlight on Topher's chest pulsed brighter, the word *Us* burning silver against his skin, and Beckett felt his own fire rise to meet it, golden flame curling around them both.

"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Topher —"

"I've got you." Topher's thumb traced the head of him, slow and deliberate, and Beckett's hips bucked into the touch. "I've got you, Beck. Let me take care of you."

Beckett's fire blazed, and he pulled Topher down into a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation. Topher kissed him back just as hard, one hand gripping Beckett's thigh, guiding it up and open.

The word *Us* burned silver between them, and Beckett let himself fall.