Archive of Our Own ^beta

The porch lights were too bright, all white glare against the cold. Cigarette smoke curled from somewhere behind her, low murmurs from the people outside carrying through the winter air that clouded her breath in pale ribbons. From inside Lucien’s house, bass thudded faintly—the same playlist he recycled at every party, familiar enough that Nesta could already guess which song would follow.

Against the chill, she tugged her coat tighter around herself, only to immediately try and claw it off the second she stepped inside. Warmth hit her like a wall, cloying after the crisp night, and with it: noise. Voices pitched high with drink, bursts of laughter, the tinny squeal of a trumpet on some jazzy remix.

Lucien’s living room looked the way it always did when he hosted, like someone had dropped an art gallery into a frat house and prayed for the best. Plush couches in jewel tones, eclectic party streamers draped too low, abstract canvases shoved between houseplants. And people everywhere. Students in glitter and sequins. Wannabe politicians and lawyers in ties already loose around their collars. A tangle of bodies in party clothes, too close, too loud.

Usually, she liked Lucien’s parties. He attracted an interesting crowd, a blend of sharp minds and chaotic artists, and it was easy to disappear into the noise. But not tonight.

Her dress—tight, silver, bought in a burst of bitter bravado—clung too tight, caught too much light. The revenge dress had seemed like a brilliant idea when she’d pulled it off the rack. Now, under the press of bodies and fairy lights, it felt like armor that pinched.

She had promised Feyre she would show her face. Be civil. Try. A week wasn’t long enough, but Feyre had looked at her with those too-big, too-earnest eyes, and Nesta had caved. I’ll go. I’ll try.

A week. The memory was still too close. The Christmas party, Rhys’s enormous living room, champagne fizzing over crystal. Her own voice, sharp and breaking, cutting through the fifth repetition of All I want for Christmas. Cassian’s hand slamming the table. A glass toppling, shattering. Everyone watching her storm out, her heels biting into the floor like punctuation.

And here he was. Already sprawled across Lucien’s couch, broad shoulders loose, laugh booming over the room like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t left him in shards just days ago. His arm draped casually over the back of the sofa, a bottle dangling from his other hand, his face so maddeningly unbothered that Nesta’s stomach clenched with heat, anger, humiliation, something sickly in between.

The sight of him was a punch. Her pulse leapt. Her body, traitorous, half-turned toward the door she’d just walked through. The urge to leave felt like needles in her legs, hot and immediate.

Instead, she inhaled. Rehearsed a polite smile, brittle enough to cut, and stepped further in. Catalogued every exit. The kitchen  that led to the back garden, the staircase to the second floor, the glass door near the piano. She traced them like escape routes on a battlefield map.

Then, deliberately, she curved her path wide, circling through a crowd of strangers so Cassian wouldn’t catch sight of her yet. Pride was one thing. Survival, another.

She found Gwyn first—copper ponytail unmistakable, her voice already carrying above the music—and Emerie close by, perched against the arm of a chair like she was tolerating the chaos by sheer will. Relief pricked through Nesta’s chest.

“There you are,” Emerie said, her brows rising, already reaching for the drinks table. “You look like you need something fun.”

Nesta opened her mouth to argue, but Emerie was already fussing—cranberry spritz, too much ice clattering into the cup, a straw shoved in before Nesta could protest. Emerie pressed it into her hand with a pointed look that asked the question she wouldn’t voice out loud. 

Are you okay?

Nesta muttered a thanks and took a long sip. Tart, fizzy, icy sweet. Not her usual, but it kept her hands busy.

Meanwhile Gwyn was leaning in, her grin bright and oblivious as always. “New Year’s resolutions?” she asked, nudging Nesta with her elbow. “Mine’s to finally finish a book that isn’t assigned reading. Emerie’s is to—what was it again? Not kill our classmates?”

Emerie sighed, rolling her eyes. “Not commit a felony before finals. That’s the one.”

Nesta couldn’t help it, her lips tugged upward.

“And yours?” Gwyn pressed, tilting her head in exaggerated expectation.

Nesta snorted. “Survive the night.”

“Fair enough,” Gwyn said cheerfully. “If Cassian dares to cross this room, I’ll stage an emergency call. My grandmother could drop dead twice tonight if we need her to.”

Emerie grinned, vicious. “I’ll throw him into the coat closet myself if we run out of dying relatives.”

Nesta barked a laugh, sharp and surprised, and the tension in her shoulders loosened by a fraction.

They retreated together into a side room, less crowded, the music a little softer. The three of them traded jokes and gossip, circling subjects carefully away from Cassian and anything that could tip Nesta back into the pit she’d been clawing out of for the past week. It worked, for a while. 

They dodged Cassian with ease, slipping between rooms, timing their escapes so neatly it felt like choreography. An hour passed like that, and Nesta almost relaxed enough to forget she was hiding.

Until Emerie glanced at her phone, and her cheer faltered.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Our flight. We have to be up in… four hours.” She winced, guilt written plain across her face. “Nesta, I’m so sorry. We can drive you back to Elain’s before we go?”

The offer was genuine, but Nesta shook her head. “No. Go. You’ll miss your flight.”

“You sure?” Gwyn pressed, brow furrowed.

Nesta forced a steady voice. “I promised Feyre I’d try. Besides…” She gestured faintly at the room, the laughter and chatter spilling in from the hall. “I actually like Lucien’s parties. Usually. I’m not leaving because of him.”

Gwyn’s gaze softened, something like pride flickering there. She reached over and squeezed Nesta’s hand, quick and warm, and Emerie gave Nesta a look that said what she didn’t out loud: You came this far. Be brave.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the crowd and the cold air beyond the door.

Nesta stood in the doorway watching them go, the drink sweating condensation in her hand. The house seemed to expand in their absence, louder, harsher. Too many strangers. Too many faces she didn’t want to read.

And across the room… Cassian, still laughing, still the picture of ease. The sight scraped raw, hot and itchy under her skin.

She swallowed hard. 

Be civil, she told herself. Pride demanded it. Though the line between that and pain was razor-thin.

Alone again, she drifted back into the tide of the party for a while. Voices swelled and broke against her like waves as she wove through the crush of strangers and acquaintances she had no interest in speaking to. The noise had grown teeth. Sharp bursts of laughter that prickled her skin, music throbbing like a headache behind her eyes, some bass-heavy pop anthem that rattled her teeth. She kept her gaze angled down, shoulders squared, pretending she wasn’t mapping every corner of the house for potential threats.

Cassian’s laugh drifted in from the living room, louder than the song, obnoxiously familiar. Her spine stiffened. She refused to turn, to look.

She passed the dining room doorway and caught Feyre’s gaze for half a second, her brows pinched, expression already weighted with that familiar sisterly worry. Too soft, too much. Nesta didn’t slow down. The last thing she needed was pity.

Right beside her sister, of course, was Rhys, leaning against the wall in one of his immaculate suits, too-polished even here. He inclined his head politely when Nesta’s eyes flicked over him, but the cool edge in his stare was clear enough. Their mutual distaste for each other had somehow only gotten worse after the Christmas debacle.

Nesta’s throat tightened. She pressed through a group of chattering classmates, nodding just enough to pass as polite, and kept moving. Mercifully without anyone intercepting her.

Everywhere felt crowded. Every laugh too loud, every face too sharp.

She sipped the new drink Emerie had left her with before vanishing—sweet, cloying, some lavender-tinted concoction Gwyn had cheerfully named a “sugarplum margarita.” The rim glittered with pink sugar, ridiculous and sticky, but it was something to hold. Something to keep her hands busy.

She exhaled hard through her nose, and made her decision.

The stairs.

Lucien always left his guest rooms open for nights like this, when half the people inevitably overstayed or crashed, and Nesta had been to enough of these parties to know which doors to trust. Peace, at least for a few minutes.

By the time she reached the stairwell, her pulse was hammering.

The carpet on the stairs muffled her heels, though each step gave a faint groan of wood, lived-in and expensive. The air shifted as she climbed, cooler, dimmer, the pulse of music softening into a dull heartbeat below. On the landing, it was almost quiet.

The upstairs stretched wide, dark wood floors and framed prints of abstract art that didn’t fit with Lucien’s personality at all but probably came with the house.

Nesta drew in a long breath, already picturing the relief of solitude. She moved to the first guest room she hoped would be unoccupied. She eased the knob, nudged the door open, slipped inside—

And nearly groaned aloud.

Not unoccupied at all.

Eris fucking Vanserra lounged across the bed like he owned the place, one long leg propped up, a glass of amber liquor balanced in one hand while he was idly scrolling on his phone with the other. Red hair catching the low lamp light. Dark button-down undone at the throat, sleeves rolled casually to the elbow. Black slacks creased just so. He looked infuriatingly at ease, better than he had any right to. The very image of someone who had claimed the room with his entitlement alone.

Nesta’s breath hissed through her teeth, the sound that slipped from her a muffled curse.

Of all the people. Of all the people.

He turned his head at the sound, mouth curving. That smile that always looked like a blade waiting for flesh.

Her hand clenched on the doorframe, and her immediate instinct was to turn on her heel and walk straight back out. Slam the door, find another corner of the house, anywhere but here.

Flee before he could open his mouth.

But irritation tangled with something sharper, unwanted. Pride. Curiosity, maybe, though she’d rather chew glass than admit it. 

Of course he’s here. Of fucking course.

Eris Vanserra, heir to his father’s fortune, cold bastard, master of the infuriating smirk, perpetual thorn in her side. Always there at the worst moments, always leaning in too close, voice pitched just so when he called her sweetheart in public with that condescending tilt of his mouth. She hated him on principle, hated him in practice, hated that Mor had ever touched him, and hated more that he’d made himself into the smug rich boy everyone despised and somehow had the audacity to thrive on it.

Ugh. This asshole. 

She hated him. She did.

The thought pulsed sharp as her heartbeat. And still—annoyance or not—her eyes betrayed her, taking in the details she didn’t want to see: the careless stretch of his posture, the way the muscles in his lower arm shifted, the line of his throat as he tipped his glass for a sip, the faint smirk tugging at his mouth as if he’d already been expecting her. 

Her internal voice was a single scream of fuck this, her expression doing nothing to hide her open hostility.

But he only put down his phone and tipped his glass at her, supremely unbothered.

Nesta groaned outright this time. 

“You. What are you doing here?” The words snapped out sharper than she intended, half offense, half insult. She shoved the door shut behind her with a little more force than necessary, the thud echoing in the quiet room.

Eris didn’t even flinch. He shrugged, and looked up at her from beneath lashes too thick for his own good, expression somewhere between bored and amused. 

“I could ask you the same. I was here first, I’ll have you know.”

Nesta hesitated.

She really should just find another room.

But then she’d be alone, stewing in her own thoughts and probably only marginally less miserable than she would’ve been downstairs.

She stayed rooted to the door, her voice stiff. “Lucien invited Cassian.”

It was as much vulnerability as she would admit in front of this viper.

His brows arched, faintly. And then—his voice carrying an edge she couldn’t quite place, too sharp for amusement, too honest for mockery, almost edging on jealousy if she didn’t know any better—“So? Everyone had to watch you two furiously make out just the other week, I fail to see how that—”

“We broke up on Christmas.”

Eris stilled. Blinked once. “Oh.”

No smirk. No grin. Just a clean recalibration, as if he’d tripped over something he hadn’t expected. For a breath, the performance he wore like a second skin fractured. The quiet pause was almost more unsettling than the snide remark she’d braced for. Worse than the drawling cruelty he usually kept sharpened just for her.

Nesta’s chest pinched. She snapped her eyes away, refusing to sit in the weight of it. She hadn’t come up here to think about Cassian. Better to redirect. Better to dig.

“And what about you?” she said, voice flinty. “You seem awfully comfortable hiding from the party.” The jab should’ve landed harder, but instead, it came out sounding like genuine curiosity. She scowled at herself.

“Well, your darling Cassian brought Morrigan,” Eris said flatly. “Last I checked, she was half on his lap.”

Nesta scoffed, though something in her chest stung. “Of course.”

“Yes, well.” He sighed as though the world was full of petty inconveniences. “So since it looks like we’re both hiding from our exes, I’d ask you not to kick me out of my hideout. I’m not above begging if that’s what it takes.” His voice carried an easy drawl, smooth as poured whiskey, but the way he patted the empty stretch of bed beside him was pure challenge.

Nesta’s lips thinned. She should’ve thrown her drink in his face and found another room. She should have. But something in his delivery—smooth, ridiculous, almost charming if she were willing to admit it—snagged against her irritation.

And distraction had its uses.

The prospect of bickering with him—of being angry at anyone other than Cassian—was suddenly, absurdly, appealing.

Her mind flickered back to another party, months ago. A benefit dinner, too many eyes and too much wine. Eris leaning in close enough to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his voice a husk of condescension as he winked at her in front of half the crowd. She’d shot him down with venom so sharp the people nearby had audibly gasped. He’d only grinned, cruel and delighted, as if she’d given him exactly what he wanted.

Nesta cursed under her breath and crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. She perched on the edge of the mattress, stiff and wary, setting her drink on the nightstand with careful fingers.

A deliberate arm’s length between them.

Silence settled, taut and charged. Neither of them admitting the relief of exile, the reprieve of another person who understood why the downstairs was off-limits.

He lifted his glass, throat bobbing as he drank, and Nesta’s gaze betrayed her again. Cataloguing him despite herself. The lamplight caught on the line of his jaw, the slightly human softness where his neck met his collar.

She knew the posture: calculated boredom, every line of him crafted to suggest he didn’t care. But after years of their paths crossing at every cursed function, she knew his body language well enough to know it was never careless. And yet here, in the quiet, it almost looked like ease.

It unsettled her. She hated that she noticed.

The quiet stretched, uncomfortable but… not unbearable.

Old enemies, both of them, hiding from the wreckage of people they’d once let close.

An uneasy truce.

“You know,” Nesta said finally, voice dry as tinder, “I was prepared to spend the night hiding out all pathetically. But I didn’t expect you of all people to be just as pathetic.”

Eris dipped his head in mock-gratitude, like she’d just knighted him. “I live to serve.”

She rolled her eyes. “Who invited you, even?”

He leaned back slightly, bracing one hand on the bed and swirling his drink with absent precision, amber liquid catching the lamplight. “First of all—rude. Second, this is my house.”

Nesta snorted. “No, it’s not. It’s Lucien’s.”

He went perfectly deadpan. “You mean to tell me you believe my disowned brother had the funds to buy a house like this?”

Her frown deepened before she could stop it. “…not if you say it like that.”

For a moment his mouth twitched, as if he’d scored a point.

“Mm.” He sounded entirely too pleased with himself.

She sighed, the edge of weariness creeping into her tone. “I thought you lived with the rest of your delightful brothers.”

That earned a visible grimace, sharp and unguarded. “I’d rather lick a hot grill, actually.”

Nesta’s mouth twitched—almost against her will—into a tiny, reluctant smile. Their barbs cut, but the rhythm was familiar. It felt practiced, like a dance they’d been performing at too many parties, too many gatherings, circling each other with venom that sometimes landed closer to camaraderie than either of them would admit.

And then, without warning, Eris sat up and reached to pluck her glass from the nightstand. The condensation beaded cool against his fingers, leaving a neat crescent-mark where his thumb pressed.

“Hey—” she started, already bristling.

But he only raised it to his lips and took a slow, theatrical sip. His eyes flicked toward her over the rim of the glass, cataloguing her reaction like he was collecting evidence for some private case.

“I didn’t take you for the sweet type,” he murmured, smirk back in place.

Nesta lunged reflexively, half-rising to snatch it back, but he shifted smoothly, angling the glass just out of reach. His gaze stayed locked on hers, lazy and sharp all at once.

“Give it back,” she snapped.

He ignored the demand. Instead, he offered his own glass with the faintest of bows, the amber catching between them like firelight. “It’s good. I’ll trade you.”

The ridiculousness of it—the gall—it should have fueled her irritation. But the sheer audacity cracked something in her chest, a nastiness that had been pressing down all night. The smallest breath of relief slipped through, though she refused to let it show.

She considered slapping his drink out of his hand, if only for the satisfaction of ruining the floorboards.

But then she’d have to endure her exile with nothing to drink.

So she just scoffed, and took the stupid tumbler from his hand—careful not to touch him—because of course Eris would be the kind of guy to drink straight liquor at a party.

He leaned in another inch as he took a second sip, slower this time. His lips brushed dangerously close to the dark mark her lipstick had left on the rim.

Nesta’s pulse jumped.

The theft was deliberate. A test. An invitation.

The faint smell of his cologne curled between them—smoke, spice, something richer beneath it—and the warmth of his hand lingered in the air where his fingers had brushed close to hers.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, low and furious, though it landed hollow.

A laugh slipped from him, low and amused, when she fixed him with her fiercest glare as though that could disguise the heat creeping under her skin. The kind of laugh that scraped at her composure because it was too human.

The moment coiled tight. An inch of space, a stolen drink, and suddenly everything between them felt sharper. More dangerous.

Nesta hated—hated—that she was disarmed by something so small.

Eris stayed close with his newly acquired drink, no longer sprawled but sitting on the edge of the mattress beside her. Close enough that she could feel the dip of the bed at her thigh, the warmth bleeding faintly across the space she’d so carefully maintained. He took another sip from her stolen cocktail, the sugary rim catching against his mouth, and for once the smirk faltered. He looked almost… thoughtful.

“It’s a shame you decided to hate me,” he said at last, tone quieter than the usual condescension, almost rueful. “This is the most entertaining… conversation I’ve had all night.”

Nesta’s head snapped toward him. She narrowed her eyes, stung more by the candor than she would’ve been by another barb. “I have every right and every reason to hate you.”

“Do tell.”

“Mor,” Nesta said flatly. “And the rest of them. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my entire friend group loathes you. Which, frankly, seems reason enough.”

Eris blinked, something like genuine surprise breaking through the practiced mask. “That’s it?”

Nesta’s scowl deepened. “Aside from your behavior every time I have the displeasure of your company? I think my friends’ opinion is plenty of reason.”

“You don’t strike me as the type for second-hand grudges.” His voice was careful, curious in a way she wasn’t used to from him. “Surely it can’t just be your friends’ unfounded hatred for me.”

Nesta just stared at him, incredulous. Heat flared in her chest. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

His brows furrowed. “Remember what, exactly?”

“Oh my god.” She gestured sharply with her glass, nearly sloshing the drink onto the floor after all. “You don’t. You actually don’t.”

He tilted his head, wary now.

Her voice pitched louder, half-scandalized, half-furious. “Halloween? Three years ago. At that stupid frat house.”

His expression twitched. “What about it?”

She bit out a humorless laugh. “What about it? You were awful. Sloppy drunk and throwing a fit. You were such a dick to everyone. And then you went and called me a little treat.”

The words tasted acrid in her mouth even now, dredged up from a night she’d shoved into a locked drawer. For a moment she was back there—plastic cobwebs strung over sagging couches, bass vibrating through her ribs. Glitter from her cheap tutu shedding like breadcrumbs behind her. His voice, slurred and cutting, sliding over her like grease. The way his laugh had made her face burn, had folded her body in on itself until she wanted to disappear.

She’d sworn never to forget. He clearly had.

But at the word treat, something clicked. His expression shifted, recognition sparking. A crease formed between his brows, as though a reel finally snapped into focus. 

“…you were that ballerina.” The words were softer, almost disbelieving. The smile that had been tugging at his mouth thinned into something almost pained.

“Oh, now you remember.” Her voice dripped venom.

He looked faintly horrified, the remaining humor dropping out of his face altogether. He leaned back, his glass lowering to his knee, suddenly hesitant. 

With a sigh, he raked his hand through his hair. The gesture rang so uncharacteristically human for him that Nesta felt the urge to get up and leave all over again.

“I was a mess then,” he said, in a tone she’d never heard before. “My family had just started to implode, and then there was the entire disaster with Mor—and none of that is an excuse, I know.” He grimaced. “But I do want to apologize for the way I acted. I was drunk, angry, and the stupidest version of myself. I remember hitting a bottom that year, making a fool of myself. I’m sorry I made you feel small.”

For a moment, Nesta almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Eris Vanserra, apologizing to her, and without any flourish or poisoned sugar. Her suspicion bristled, instinctively searching for the angle. Especially since he seemed to know exactly what his asshole act had been like for everyone unfortunate enough to witness it. And seemed to know even better how to apologize for it.

But there was no glamour in his tone, no expectation of absolution. Just a flat acknowledgment of harm.

His thumb rubbed slowly along the rim of her glass, scattering the line of pink sugar, gaze fixed on it like he couldn’t meet her eyes. 

For a long beat, silence pressed between them. Then, finally, he looked up.

“If I could take it back,” he said, softer still, “I would.”

The words settled heavy between them. Awkward, quiet, but too earnest to be dismissed.

Nesta’s throat worked. Her instinct was to push, to cut, to keep him where he belonged: at arm’s length, beneath her heel. But the absence of performance unsettled her. She couldn’t forgive, but she couldn’t entirely ignore it either.

“You’re still a dick,” she muttered finally.

A corner of his mouth twitched, not into a smirk but something flatter, resigned. “I know.”

She blinked, thrown. She’d expected sarcasm, a lunge for the upper hand. Not this simple, unnerving concession.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to be angry, to dig her nails into the old grudge and wear it like armor. But a crack had opened, and damn him, he’d put it there. So she reached for anger anyway, because it was safer.

“What kind of pickup line is calling someone a treat, anyway?”

He lifted one shoulder, deadpan. “Your tutu was making that crinkly candy wrapper noise when you moved. And you had glitter all over you. I was drunk enough to think I was being clever.”

And despite herself, the tiniest smirk tugged at her mouth before she could kill it. The fact that he remembered even that—some drunken detail, silly and inconsequential—sent a confusing, unwanted warmth through her chest.

She wanted to kick him for it. Because it complicated the anger she’d been cultivating for years.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The house pulsed faintly beneath them with muffled bass, but up here the air had gone still, suspended. Nesta traced the condensation ring her lost drink had left on the nightstand, determined not to look at him—until his voice slipped through, lower than before.

“Titania, right?”

Her head jerked up.

He was watching her, his expression strangely tentative, no sharp smirk, no gleam of cruelty. Just the faintest thread of amusement.

“What?” she asked, thrown.

“The costume,” he said, his smile twitching as though he couldn’t quite hold it in place. “From that party. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Nesta blinked at him, skeptical. “I didn’t take you for a fan of ballet.”

The glint of sarcasm returned, familiar and infuriating, because he probably just couldn’t fucking help himself. “Doesn’t Titania fall in love with a donkey? Seems like you can relate. Falling for an ass and all that.”

She fixed him with the driest look she could muster. “And just when I was starting to think you weren’t a total bastard.”

He lifted one hand in mock surrender, pastelly drink still balanced in the other. “Alright, alright. I’m sorry… but you can’t deny I’m kind of right.”

Her frown deepened, though a reluctant huff slipped through her nose. “Fair enough. I’ll give you that one.”

The grin he gave her in return was pure victory. “I’ll cherish your generosity forever.”

“That still doesn’t explain anything,” she pressed, unwilling to let him slip back into vagueness.

He sighed again, long-suffering but without bite, like he already regretted opening that door at all. 

“Back before it all fell apart, my mother insisted on a family Christmas tradition,” he said finally. “So, ballet every year. I went because she loved it—and because my father called it a waste of time.” His jaw clenched almost imperceptibly on the last words. Then he gave a small shrug, folding it away. “And I just… grew fond of it.”

Her brows lifted before she could help it.

“My favorite is The Nutcracker.” He gave a crooked smile, quick and self-deprecating. “Cliché, I know.”

And not for the first time that evening, Nesta saw something past the smirk. A flicker of vulnerability, gone almost before she could name it. She studied him, unsettled. The arrogance was still there in posture, in tone, but she couldn’t quite ignore the depth beneath it. The softness she wasn’t supposed to see. 

Nesta’s hand tightened on the glass. She didn’t let her expression shift, not much, but the curiosity prickling in her chest betrayed her.

Eris Vanserra, heir, bastard, thorn in her side. And apparently someone who happily went to Christmas ballets with his mother.

She tilted her drink toward him accusingly. “I kind of assumed your hobbies would be more along the lines of… professional tax evasion and hunting endangered animals. You know. With your whole evil rich boy persona.”

He ran a hand through his hair with a small, breathy laugh, the red strands falling everywhere. “That too.”

Nesta rolled her eyes and looked away. Away from his stupid smirk, with his stupid dimples and stupid freckles.

She tipped the glass to her lips, taking a longer sip than she meant to, if only to appear busy for a moment—and paused, startled by the taste. She pulled back, staring down at the glass, remembering only then that she was still holding his drink. It wasn’t liquor after all—or not just. The drink was sweeter, brighter, the sugar balancing the burn. Good. Better than she’d expected. 

“Huh.”

“What?” His eyes were still on her.

“This is surprisingly not terrible.” She glanced over at him, half-suspicious.

He snorted softly, lounging back on one hand, golden eyes gleaming. “Guess I’m just full of surprises.”

Nesta swirled the glass absently in her hand, watching the garnish spin in the amber. “I’d love to tell you to go to hell,” she said at last, almost reluctant, “but I actually think this is the longest I’ve ever gone without feeling the need to throttle you.”

Eris only hummed, low and noncommittal, sipping from his drink. “Don’t worry. It’ll pass.”

She scoffed, picking at the hem of her dress with restless fingers. “Do you want me to go back to insulting you?”

His eyes glimmered with something she couldn’t quite place—something more honest than mockery, sharper than amusement. “I mind your insults a lot less than you think, Archeron. In fact…” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t miss them for the world.”

Nesta snorted. “Not just insufferable, but insane too.”

He leaned a little farther back on his elbow, posture loose, smugness radiating off him like heat. “I never claimed otherwise.”

She should have bristled, should have felt the familiar spark of irritation. But instead a strange realization crept in, unguarded:

She hadn’t thought about Cassian once since she’d walked into this room. Half an hour, maybe more, and the sharp edges of heartbreak had dulled beneath this… whatever this was. Companionable animosity. A reprieve disguised as verbal sparring.

Well, she hadn’t thought about Cassian until now.

The thought soured her tongue. Because now she was thinking of him again.

Her chest tightened, and bitterness sharpened her voice before she could stop it. “Seems like you’d have to be insane to tolerate me.”

The words slipped free, rawer than she meant. She straightened immediately, heat rushing up her neck, and threw back the rest of her drink like it might erase the mistake. Mortified. That she’d said it at all. And worse—that she’d said it in front of Eris Vanserra, of all people.

I must either be going insane too, she thought viciously, or I’m just very, very lonely to forget that this man is the worst asshole I know.

When she risked a glance at him, his expression had fallen. The usual smirk gone, something quieter pulling at his features. 

His fingers tapped once against his glass—her glass—then stilled.

“What happened with Cassian?” he asked quietly, a strange, heavy edge to his voice. He looked at her like he’d actually heard her. Like it somehow mattered to him.

Nesta’s breath caught. 

Of all the people she could talk to, Eris should have been the last. And yet…

He wasn’t Feyre. He wasn’t Rhys. He wasn’t part of their “inner circle” where every word came back to her like judgment. With him, someone she was supposed to despise, there was a certain safety in detachment.

Strangest of all though, she found herself believing that he wouldn’t weaponize it. Not here. Not now. 

And through her mortification, she considered that telling him might not be the worst mistake she could make.

Her mouth opened, then shut. 

She could tell him to fuck off, keep it all bottled up where it belonged. But the stress about her failing relationship had been building for months. And against her better judgment—against every self-preserving instinct—words spilled anyway.

“It already wasn’t great,” she said, voice clipped, as if precision might dull the sting. “Not for a long time. Cassian always put Rhys first. Always. Even when we were alone. We’d be out together and he’d take Rhys’s calls in the middle of a movie, in the middle of dinner, mid-conversation. And I’d sit there smiling like it didn’t matter.”

Her nails traced the rim of the empty glass, over and over again. “We used to fight about it, and he’d promise he’d change. But he never did. And I guess I would have resigned myself to it eventually, if he’d actually made me believe that he loved me more than his brother despite it all.”

Her lip curled, anger aimed inward as much as outward. “But it always felt like being with me was a chore to him. That he wanted a simpler version. Quieter, easier. I was relegated into a role I didn’t sign up for. So I stopped asking for things. Stopped saying things that might come out wrong. I learned how to be smaller, so he wouldn’t be embarrassed of me.”

She didn’t look at him while she said it, until she noticed the motion in her periphery. He was sitting up straighter again, and for a moment, she thought he might interrupt. But he didn’t. His jaw had gone taut, the muscle ticking like he was holding something back. 

The flicker in his eyes wasn’t performative, it was understanding. Unexpectedly sincere.

It disarmed her enough that the rest came pouring out.

“The final straw was Christmas." Her voice flattened, but a tremor threaded through it despite her effort to sound detached. “Rhysand’s grand family party. Cassian gave Mor a lingerie set. Right in front of me. Said something like, ’suits you, babe.’”

Her voice caught, but she forced it steady. “Everyone laughed. Like it was a joke. Like I was just… scenery in the background of their inside joke. And when I dared to burst their bubble and say it wasn’t funny, it was again too much.”

Her hand tightened around the empty glass, the tension cutting through her deliberate calm. The humiliation still burned hot, still made her feel small when she thought about it. Small, and half-broken, because the truth was that she’d wanted Cassian to apologize, to at least acknowledge that his stupid joke had been in bad taste. And all she’d gotten was an argument with six people telling her she was overreacting.

She set the empty glass down on the nightstand to give her hands something, anything to do. But it didn’t soothe her a bit.

Her throat locked. She kept her voice as even as she could, but the fury she’d kept locked up until now leaked through anyway. “I realized then I was already halfway out. Because what kind of partner makes you feel like that, all the time?”

The words hung between them.

For a long moment, Eris didn’t move. His golden eyes burned in a way that startled her, focused like she’d seen them a thousand times during their petty arguments.

She braced for mockery, for some twist of the knife, but none came.

“That’s disgusting,” he said, his voice low and edged with distaste. “Not that the stupidity surprises me. But I expected him to at least care about you.”

Nesta blinked, stunned. She’d expected ridicule, the usual smirk. But instead there was only clear-eyed judgment, sharp and cutting, and none of it aimed at her, for once.

The small defense shouldn’t have mattered. Not from him. And yet it sank into her chest, ember-warm.

And that, damn him, was what loosened her tongue enough to keep talking. Her fingers found the hem of her dress again, worrying it between restless nails. 

“And then I ended it. Right there at the dinner table. In front of all of them.” She let out a brittle laugh. “We were screaming at each other like idiots, the rest of them watching like it was free theater. Until I’d had enough and just… walked out. Called an Uber and left him sitting there with the shattered champagne glasses.”

She shook her head, eyes fixed on the loose thread she was working free, words coming faster now. “I’ve been staying with Elain since. I can’t even make myself go back to the apartment—we signed the lease together, and I can’t… I don’t want to see his stuff. It all feels like proof that I… failed.”

The admission left her feeling raw, like she’d peeled her own skin back for him to examine. But Eris didn’t smirk, didn’t sneer.

“It sounds like you got sick of being tolerated,” he said, not unkindly. Not sympathy, but something closer to solidarity. “You were right to walk out.”

He didn’t offer pity—not the soft eyes Gwyn had given her, not Emerie’s gentle reassurances. His expression was still unreadable, save for the faint weight in his eyes.

Her nails caught the thread again, pulling until it gave with a faint snap. She stared down at the tiny fray, incredulous. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you all of this. You.” The laugh that broke out of her was humorless, edged with self-disgust. “I swear to god, if you ever use any of this against me, I’ll kill you.”

It should’ve rolled right off him—he thrived on her barbs—but instead, something in his face flickered. A tiny wince, quickly masked, though she caught it anyway.

“I know my word isn’t worth much,” he said at last, forcing the ghost of a smile. “But as much as I enjoy getting under your skin, I’m not that kind of a dick.”

She scoffed, the sound brittle. “You’re right about one thing—your word isn’t worth shit.”

Her hand had gone back to the seam she was mutilating, pulling harder until the metallic threads threatened to unravel completely. 

But she couldn’t seem to stop.

And then—warmth.

His hand closed lightly over hers, just enough pressure to still the frantic motion before she could shred the hem beyond repair.

Both of them froze.

The warmth of his palm against her restless fingers was startling in its gentleness. Too much and not enough, cutting through her spiraling nerves with a single, unexpected anchor.

The dress was saved. But her composure was another matter entirely.

The heat of Eris’s palm lingered even after he withdrew, his hand sliding back to his lap with a quickness that almost looked apologetic. For once, he didn’t immediately fill the quiet with a smirk or barb. He just studied her for a long moment, his fingers spinning the empty sugar-rimmed glass in his hands.

Then, like he’d made up his mind, he tilted his head.

“Want to get back at them?”

Nesta’s healthy wariness of him snapped back into place instantly. “Back at who?”

His grin returned, slow and wolfish, as if her suspicion was the most predictable thing in the world. “Take your pick. Your court of loyal spectators. Your ex. Anyone who thinks they get to laugh at your expense.”

She narrowed her eyes, every nerve on edge. “What exactly are you planning now?”

Instead of answering, he chuckled under his breath, his grin softening into something that unnerved her even more than the teeth. One of those self-deprecating smiles she was beginning—against her own will—to like.

“I do love that you always assume the worst of me. But hear me out before you flay me alive, alright? I promise, this’ll work like a charm.”

“Charm is the last word I’d use when it comes to you.”

“That’s because you haven’t seen me put it to proper use.”

Her scowl deepened, though not enough to keep him from leaning in a fraction, voice lowering as if sharing a conspiracy. 

“I’ll be your boyfriend for tonight. Loud, inconvenient, appropriately devoted and unfailingly charming. Cassian will be foaming at the mouth before midnight.”

Nesta blinked. Of all the idiotic things he might’ve said, that had not been on the list. Heat flickered traitorously through her chest—alarmed, horrified, and somehow dangerously close to intrigued. For a few seconds, all she could do was stare. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly so.” His eyes gleamed. “Or at least serious enough to make it fun.”

Her spine stiffened. “I don’t want drama. I don’t want people thinking I’m doing this out of spite.”

Eris arched a single brow. “That’s not a no.”

Her teeth clicked, but she countered quickly, “You’d have to play nice.”

“I’ll be so nice,” he murmured, his grin all provocation, “you’ll want to keep me.”

It landed like a joke and a dare all at once. Her stomach flipped, and she despised him for it.

“What’s in it for you?”

He leaned back slightly, like he’d been expecting the question.

“The satisfaction of driving Morrigan insane,” he said smoothly. “I’d never pass that up.” Then his voice dipped, the glint in his eyes shifting to something that burned warmer, deeper. “And—I don’t miss chances.”

The words felt like they had thorns, as if there was more he could say but wouldn’t. The air seemed to thicken between them, charged and unsteady.

Nesta’s pulse beat hard at her throat. Her nails worried at the slowly fraying hem of her dress again. She should say no. She should walk away. Her thoughts twisted, circling. It was reckless, inviting disaster. She didn’t want to be accused of pettiness, of being the spiteful bitch everyone already painted her as.

But she was so tired of contorting herself into something small, something palatable. Of always trying to prove herself.

And if she was going to be seen tonight anyway, if people were going to talk anyway, she’d damn well choose the narrative.

Her chin lifted. “Fine.”

For a heartbeat, surprise flickered across his face. His eyes widened a fraction, like he hadn’t expected her to actually agree. The smirk faltered, giving way to something brighter, almost delighted. His mouth tugged into a smile that looked… real.

Nesta ignored the skip of her heart.

“Rules,” she snapped before he could gloat. “No real intimacy. No kissing. Tiny touches are fine—even possessive ones—but nothing over the line. You can put your arm around me, hold my hand, but that’s it. No escalating things into a real fight with Cassian. And if I squeeze your hand twice, you stop. Once means keep going. Clear?”

His expression only lit up further, teeth flashing as he set down her empty glass beside his own. Then he extended a hand, palm up, in a gesture absurdly formal.

“You have yourself a deal, love.”

She stared at it for a beat, every instinct screaming at her to keep her distance.  It was a bad idea. A dangerous one.

And still, she slid her palm against his, grip firm. 

It wasn’t trust, not in a million years. But it felt like agency. Like she’d chosen the terms of her own rebellion.

And for tonight, that was enough.

Because whatever else this was, it was hers to choose.

Nesta’s heels thudded softly against the carpeted stairs, the muffled sound barely audible beneath the hum of bass rising from the floor below. Eris’s hand was laced firmly with hers, fingers interlocked, his palm pressed warm and steady against her own like it belonged there. Too comfortable. Too practiced. Like they’d been doing this forever.

The banister vibrated faintly beneath her other hand, Lucien’s playlist a low thrumming heartbeat through the walls.

Even from the landing, she could already feel the shift. Heads turned. Conversations dimmed. The air pricked with awareness as heads tilted upward, eyes narrowing at the sight of them descending together. Whispers drifted through the air as if the house itself had turned to take notice.

Nesta’s next step slowed, suddenly unsure again.

Why the hell did I let myself get talked into this?

She’d known this was a horrible idea. There was no way this wouldn’t backfire spectacularly.

Before they stepped into full view of everyone, Eris bent his head, his breath grazing the edge of her ear. 

“Not to fall back into old patterns,” he murmured, voice pitched just for her, “but I do need to tell you that you look incredible tonight.”

Heat flared traitorously under her skin, a sharp spike of warmth despite knowing it was an act, despite herself. 

She shoved down with a flat reply. “I know.”

His answering grin was gorgeous and crooked, dimples flashing. “Good.”

He played it like theater. His stride was leisurely, every line of his body arranged in that mask of pleasant arrogance. 

At the bottom of the stairs, when someone’s gaze lingered too long, his lips dipped toward her hair, his voice carrying just enough to land where he wanted it.

“My midnight.”

To strangers it was harmless, just another piece of gossip to spread. But Nesta felt the precision of the blade, how deliberately he aimed it to reach the ears that mattered most.

Nesta felt the heat climb her neck. She yanked him forward before he could get more insufferable, weaving them into the crush of the living room where she knew the others would be. Her cheeks burned, but not entirely from embarrassment. Adrenaline thrummed sweet and heady, sparking in her veins.

No turning back now, though.

She saw the moment they noticed.

Across the room, Cassian’s easy grin faltered the instant his eyes caught on her hand threaded through Eris’s. His gaze flicked to their hands, up to her face, and back down again, sharp with disbelief. Mor’s nose wrinkled in obvious disgust, her lip curling as though she’d just tasted something sour. Feyre’s brows arched, profound confusion flickering across her features. Rhys’s jaw worked once, twice, tight enough that the tendons in his neck strained.

The sight of it all sent a hot surge of vindication through Nesta’s chest. 

Alright, maybe not such a terrible idea after all.

The closer they got, the heavier the scrutiny. Rhys watched with cool, unreadable eyes, though his disappointment was almost tangible. Feyre’s expression softened when Nesta glanced her way—a silent protective question. What’s going on?

And Eris—Eris looked utterly unbothered.

He tugged her subtly into his side, his arm sliding low around her waist as though it were second nature. Then, with exaggerated attentiveness, he let his lips brush her temple. Nothing obnoxious. Just the kind of attentive little gesture that rang louder than words.

The effect was immediate. The room recalibrated around it like a struck bell. 

He looked devoted. Possessive. Hers.

Entirely too good at this.

Cassian’s voice cracked through the noise, carrying over the music and the murmur of the crowd.

“Nesta—what the fuck?”

He stood rooted near the couches, broad shoulders squared, the protective stance he always defaulted to. But the twist of his mouth gave him away—disbelief, jealousy, the jagged edge of hurt. And though he looked ready to close the distance, he didn’t. Not with half the room’s attention already hooked on the scene like sharks scenting blood.

Mor, however, had never cared for caution. She swooped in like she’d been waiting for her cue, golden hair swinging as she cut across the circle with claws bared.

“Really, Nesta?” Her tone dripped disdain, pitched just enough to reach every curious ear. “That’s a new low, even for you. Do you really want to make a fucking spectacle?”

Her gaze swept Eris like a blade, head to toe, before flicking back to Nesta as if daring her to feel the sting.

Eris’s answering smile was slow in its deliberate cruelty, the kind that drew the crowd closer without a word. He didn’t bother to rush, he wanted everyone to pay attention.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you. Are you still not over it after all this time?” he drawled, almost bored. “Maybe I just prefer someone who can actually keep up.”

Color climbed Mor’s face, blotching her cheeks with fury. She rounded on him, barbed and spitting.

“Desperate for drama, aren’t you?”

He only shrugged, the movement elegant, lazy, as if she weren’t worth the effort of real anger.

“I’m whatever she wants me to be.”

Then he pivoted, golden eyes finding Nesta. The shift in his gaze was immediate, disarming. That glint of cruelty dimmed, softened into something else entirely.

“Because she,” his voice carried, unhurried, “deserves someone who sees her as nothing less than extraordinary.”

The words settled heavy into the air, reverberating. Like stones in water, the ripple spread fast, through the crowd, through Nesta.

Mor’s mouth snapped shut. No comeback came. For once, she had nothing.

Nesta’s pulse stumbled. Heat bloomed hot and disoriented in her chest, a flush she could neither excuse nor ignore.

She told herself it was just performance—that it had to be performance—calculated like everything else that came out of his mouth. But the effect still landed.

She hadn’t known he could be like this.

But still.

Still.

Her mind betrayed her with a flash of memory. Another party, months ago, where she’d had the misfortune of cornering herself into a kitchen conversation with him. His words had dripped arrogance, every flirt a backhanded insult, every smirk designed to needle and provoke. He had been all sharp edges and contemptuous charm, untouchable in his cruelty. Every word back then had felt like a jab designed to bruise. His arrogance had been unbearable enough to choke on, filling the room until she had wanted to claw her way out.

And now—this. 

She flicked her gaze at him sidelong, trying to make sense of it. His posture was easy, his hand warm and steady at her waist, his words ringing in her ears like something she hadn’t realized she needed.

And suddenly she wondered—

Which version of him was the bigger lie?

Were both of them an act?

Or—horribly, confusingly—were both of them true? 

Before she could even begin to puzzle out an answer, Eris threw a painfully polite “If you’ll excuse us” at the four seething people across from them, and steered her away.

As Eris guided her through the press of bodies, his hand firm at her lower back, he leaned just close enough for her to catch his voice.

“Told you I’d be nice.”

Nesta jabbed an elbow into his ribs without breaking stride. His breath hitched in a quiet, startled chuckle, low and real enough that unwanted satisfaction curled in her chest.

They slipped past the worst of the stares, but the air still buzzed with speculation. She hated that she could feel the whispers brushing the back of her neck. Hated more that she was half-thrumming with exhilaration anyway.

They moved deeper into Lucien’s house—Eris’s house—the noise swallowing them again. For a moment she almost forgot how many eyes tracked their steps—until Eris disappeared.

Nesta blinked, scanning the crowd, irritation flaring that he’d abandon her in the middle of their act. But then he reappeared, smug grin intact, carrying a bowl stacked with mixed pretzels and candy.

“Since the snack table is a crime against hospitality,” he announced, presenting it with a ridiculous little bow like a priceless gift. “Finest cuisine the kitchen could provide.”

Against her better judgment, Nesta snorted. Actual laughter bubbled up, quick and incredulous, catching her off guard. And just like that, the sense of being prey under a hundred watching eyes slipped away for one blessed heartbeat.

And it just went on like that.

Eris, apparently committed to his role and determined to keep Nesta in good spirits, morphed into the picture of the perfect boyfriend, even with smugness oozing off him. He never left Nesta’s side for more than a few seconds, kept people from bumping into her at every turn, held her drink, catered to her every whim.

Even as one strap of her shoe came loose and she was quietly cursing and holding on to his shoulder for balance, he just knelt without preamble to adjust it for her. And as if the sight of him on his knees before her wasn’t bewildering enough, he had the audacity to wink up at her.

He truly was enjoying this game way too much. But she’d dug this hole herself, and she’d be damned if she chickened out now.

So she played along. Played into it.

Later, in the dining room, someone mentioned coursework, the conversation splintering across majors and complaints. People were discussing projects, and before Nesta could sink into the background, Eris’s voice cut smoothly across the chatter.

“Didn’t you mention you’re writing on contract enforcement?” His golden eyes flicked to her, intent, coaxing. “Fascinating topic. Tell me—do you think loopholes are a flaw in the system, or proof that it works exactly as intended?”

His tone wasn’t mocking. It was deliberate, smart, a question crafted to draw her in. And before she realized it, she was speaking, arguing definitions, dissecting clauses, her hands sketching points in the air. Half the room had gone quiet to listen.

It wasn’t until she caught herself mid-sentence—arguing with one of Lucien’s friends—that Nesta realized what had happened. Eris had nudged the spotlight directly onto her, and she’d stepped into it without thinking. The group around them was listening—actually listening—and she had to bite down on the rush of startled pride.

Eris, meanwhile, was watching her with quiet satisfaction, as though this had been his plan all along.

When a stranger close to the door muttered, not quite under his breath—“Bet she’ll regret this by morning”—Nesta stiffened, but Eris didn’t even blink. He turned a lazy stare on the offender, nothing overt, just enough to make the man blanch and look away. Then, as if the insult had never existed, he angled back toward her, attentive as ever, like she was the only person in the room worth listening to.

Her chest tightened. The power shift was palpable. 

The music from the living room shifted. The bass softened into something smoother, the rhythm slowed into a song that hovered at the edge of romantic.

Eris rose smoothly, extending his hand with an exaggerated courtesy that earned a few chuckles from bystanders.

“May I have this dance?”

Nesta rolled her eyes, but she barely felt the annoyance she’d expected. “You’re overdoing it.”

But she set her hand in his anyway, letting him draw her onto the makeshift dancefloor like he owned the space.

But instead of the aimless slow dancing that she had expected, she found that he was an excellent dancer. Fluid, controlled, the kind of partner who could easily keep up with her.

He spun her once, before drawing her closer, his palm settling firm at the small of her back. His chest brushed hers with each beat, their proximity staged but seamless.

“No one here deserves your time,” he murmured over the blare of music, voice close to her ear. “Least of all me. But I’ll take it anyway.”

Eyes followed them, she knew. The inner circle among them. But when she tilted her head up, Eris wasn’t looking at anyone else. His gaze was on her. Only her.

That was worse.

Because now she noticed things she shouldn’t. The tilt of his head when he listened, the crooked curl of his mouth when real amusement flickered there, the way he intercepted small insults before they could sting. The line between pretense and sincerity blurred until she could no longer tell where one ended.

Performance, she told herself. It’s all performance.

And yet her chest burned with a dangerous realization. 

She liked this.

He was tender where she hadn’t expected tenderness. Protective without smothering. Attentive without making her smaller.

And her… she was laughing, biting, witty. Whole. Fiercer than she’d been allowed to be in months. Cassian had always made her feel like she had to fold herself down, trim her edges. Eris, damn him, seemed to revel in them. Framed them as desirable.

And as the music carried them through the crowd, as she let Eris spin her once more before drawing her close again, she thought:

This is going to end in disaster.

Because the truth settled in like fire under her skin: this role, this reckless performance, gave her more confidence than her real relationship ever had. This fake thing between them—this illusion—was distressingly intoxicating.

For the first time in months, maybe years, Nesta felt in charge of the story being told about her. The sting of Christmas, the humiliation of being laughed at, melted into something headier.

She was more herself than she had been in months. Not Cassian’s shadow, not the version of herself she’d tried to shrink into to keep the peace.

She wasn’t an afterthought. She wasn’t tolerated. She was center stage.

And it felt good.

Too good.

They didn’t so much break apart as redirect, drifting back through the crowded room like they were still moving to the rhythm of the last song. Eris’s hand remained gently pressed between her shoulder blades, guiding her with a pressure so light it could have been mistaken for nothing at all—except it wasn’t nothing.

His presence against her spine was maddeningly solid, a heat she couldn’t quite shake.

“You must be thirsty. I’ll make you another drink,” he announced, not to her so much as to the air around them, his tone casual but threaded with the sort of authority that carried. The words landed like a declaration, ensuring anyone watching that his attention was fixed squarely on her.

Nesta knew the eyes followed. Feyre, lingering near the couch, her brows drawn tight in worry. Cassian, stiff as stone just behind her, arms crossed as though bracing against a blow. Mor, lips pursed with contempt. They were watching. They were all watching.

Every step she took with Eris at her side felt scrutinized, weighed, filed away to dissect later. And he knew it. Of course he knew it. He reveled in it, his stride easy, his expression that insufferable mask of cocky nonchalance. A man entirely at ease in the role he’d conjured.

At the kitchen counter, he didn’t stop at polite proximity. He tugged her in until their bodies aligned, letting her crowd him against the counter, close enough to read as unmistakably intimate. Nesta leaned into it, refusing to back down, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

If this was a game, she would not be the one to crack.

He caught her hand with an ease that was practiced but not rushed, weaving his fingers through hers. His thumb dragged slow, deliberate circles over the back of her hand—a motion so intimate it bordered on obscene. But she knew better—she could feel the intent in it, a provocation dressed as tenderness.

She knew, knew, that it was a dare. As if he were silently asking whether she’d flinch.

She didn’t. 

She held her ground, chin high, pulse hammering.

He lowered his head, lips grazing her temple, close enough that the warmth of his breath stirred a strand of hair.

“You owe me, you know,” he murmured. “Enduring Lucien’s abysmal music taste this long should qualify me for sainthood.”

It was ridiculous. Nonsense. But her mouth betrayed her before her brain could stop it. A smile, small and earnest.

And he saw. She could see it in the quick, gleaming flicker of his eyes—victory claimed without a word.

And before she could gather her defenses, he lifted their twined hands with studied elegance, bowing his head like they were waltzing in some candlelit ballroom instead of standing in a sticky-floored kitchen mid-party. His lips brushed across her knuckles. Slow. Ceremonial.

It was utterly inappropriate for the setting, in a way that made the air between them fizz.

And it still stole her breath.

The press of his mouth was feather-light, but molten heat sparked through her chest anyway, uncoiling where she didn’t want it. She jerked her gaze to the counter, refusing to let him see the heat flushing her cheeks.

Eris, however, seemed completely unfazed as he untangled himself from her, hands tugging on her wrists until she backed off enough for him to begin the careful ritual of constructing a drink for her. He turned to the bottles lined along the counter, his focus deliberate.

His voice dropped low again, steady, coaxing, a hum that carved a private space between them as he poured and measured.

“So,” he said conversationally, sliding a glass across the counter, “are you still set on law?” He reached for a shaker without looking up. “Or have you ever considered changing your major?”

He followed up with more. What authors she read when she wasn’t buried in textbooks, what professor she hated most, whether she had any plans for spring break. The questions were simple, harmless, but threaded together in a way that drew her orbit tighter around him. 

And the worst part was—it was nice. To have someone ask. To be invited to talk about herself, about her life, as though it mattered.

As he was garnishing her drink, he plucked up a strawberry from a bowl, holding it aloft between his fingers as though he meant to feed her. “Hungry?”

Her glare was instant, lethal.

He tilted his head, expression all false innocence, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. He didn’t lower the fruit. Just waited patiently.

Finally, with a sigh of exasperation, she snatched the fruit from his hand and pushed it into her mouth herself, glowering at him all the while. Suggestive. Deliberate.

The dimpled grin that split his face was feral, smug victory. His teeth flashed, bright and devastating.

And Nesta, damn her, felt heat climb her neck.

He set the glass down with a neat clink, his head tipping in a parody of charm. 

“Care to let me steal you away for a moment, love?”

His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the pantry door.

Nesta caught the implication immediately.

Bastard.

But instead of refusing—or snapping back—she smiled. Slow, sharp. Dangerous.

She didn’t break eye contact as she lifted her hand, fingers skating up the front of his shirt. Beneath the cotton, she felt the shape of muscle, the heat of him radiating through. He stilled, obviously not having expected her to take the bait, and she was glad for his momentary distraction. Because her own breath caught traitorously before she covered it with a razor smile.

“Gladly.”

She didn’t let herself consider the fact that a tiny part of her… meant it.

It was only pretend. It was all just pretend.

…right?

Eris didn’t wait for her to second-guess. He caught her hand again, fingers slotting through hers, and tugged her toward the pantry with that easy confidence. 

Nesta didn’t miss the way conversation lulled as they moved, or the curious glances that followed. Half the room was watching. So she let herself play it up, leaning closer to him with a low laugh as Eris pushed the door shut behind them. The sound of the lock clicking sealed the scene for their audience.

Inside, the light was dimmer, yellowed from the single bulb overhead. Shelves lined the narrow walls, cluttered with canned goods and cardboard boxes, the air faint with the smell of flour and spices.

Before Nesta’s eyes could adjust, she suddenly found herself dangerously close to Eris’s chest again, his cologne heavy and inviting from this proximity. As if he had planned it, arms braced on either side of her shoulders, caging her against the wood. His body loomed close enough that the heat of him seeped through her dress, her back hitting the wood with a dull thud that was absolutely audible to anyone lingering outside. 

There was barely an inch of space left between them. 

Her heart jolted hard. She told herself she didn’t care.

Eris only chuckled, low and pleased, before peeling himself back enough to reach for a shelf. A box landed neatly in her hands a moment later.

“Here,” he said, almost offhandedly, though the glint in his eyes belied it. “I faintly remember you liking these.”

Nesta blinked down at the chocolate cookies in her hands. The memory had to be years old—some long-ago party, her own casual complaint about the cheap brand everyone else bought. She hadn’t thought anyone had been listening.

But he had.

“…thank you,” she muttered, quieter than she meant to, and snapped one of the cookies between her teeth, determined to act unbothered even as something in her chest twisted.

Eris smirked. “I’ll take that as high praise.”

Somehow, it didn’t slip into an awkward silence from there.

They shared snacks like conspirators in hiding, leaning against shelves, barbs trading easily. Professors they both loathed, mutual acquaintances making fools of themselves, books they liked. They ended up debating whether it took more years off your life to have to navigate the endless smalltalk at a charity event, or to sit through one of Rhys’s political tirades. Nesta found herself laughing—short, muffled bursts at first, then longer, unguarded. Real, startled laughter that unspooled something in her and left her off balance. 

It unnerved her, that ease. She wasn’t used to it.

She wasn’t used to him making it easy.

Wasn’t used to how nice talking to him could be when she wasn’t busy hating him.

Eventually, her sharp eyes caught the glint of his watch. Without thinking, she reached for his wrist, turning it toward her. His skin was warm beneath her fingers, his pulse beating hard, thrumming through her hand.

Electricity shot up her arm, immediate and dizzying.

“Fifteen minutes,” she said crisply, forcing her tone to stay cool. “Do you think that’ll do it?”

He leaned back against the opposite shelf, lazy and feline, grinning like he had all the time in the world. “Not quite. Mess up my hair.”

Nesta arched a brow. “Excuse me?”

He dipped his head forward, smirk curling like smoke, lowering it so she had better access. “It’ll be more believable like this. Trust me.” A wink. “And my hair is very soft.”

She rolled her eyes but her hand lifted almost on its own anyway. Her fingers slid into his hair, ruffling through the red strands with a shove that was meant to be dismissive. Except—damn it—it was soft. She yanked her hand away like she’d been burned. But the texture still lingered against her fingertips, longer than she wanted. 

“Done now?”

Eris didn’t give her space to breathe. He stepped back in, crowding her against the door again, his presence heavier this time. Not playful. Not a joke.

“One more thing.”

The door pressed cool at her back, his body warm at her front.

His hand rose, fingertips brushing along her jaw. The lightest touch, but it tilted her chin up, angling her face toward his. 

Her breath stuttered. 

His thumb traced the curve of her bottom lip, dragging, and her eyes went wide. Her heart threatened to slam out of her chest even as she forced a frown onto her face.

“What—” she began, voice fraying.

But he was already pulling back.

That infernal grin—wicked, delighted—flashed across his face. Slowly, deliberately, he dragged the pad of his thumb across the corner of his own mouth, smearing the faintest trace of her lipstick there.

“There,” he murmured. “Perfect.”

The world tilted. Her body was unraveling, dizzy. For one wild, impossible moment, she’d thought he would actually kiss her, despite her rules. And worse—much worse—she didn’t know if she would have stopped him.

Heat surged in her cheeks again, humiliating. She ducked her head, breaking the line of his gaze, desperate to shield herself. With brisk, controlled movements, she shoved the door open with a hand that wasn’t entirely steady.

She slipped back out into the heart of the party, a clean escape. The cool air of the kitchen hit her, armor snapping back into place. 

This was still just part of the game.

Pretend. Always pretend.

Eris followed at her heels, smug and radiant, wearing her lipstick like a prize.

Nesta refused—absolutely refused—to acknowledge the answering flare that lit in her chest at the sight. Pretended it didn’t burn.

She had barely made it three steps back into the kitchen before she stopped short.

Heat still clung faintly to Nesta—an echo of the pantry—but it died the moment she saw who was waiting.

Cassian.

He was propped against the counter as though he’d been rooted there the entire time, arms crossed tight over his chest. His eyes flicked once over Nesta—her flushed cheeks, her still-breathless mouth—before cutting to Eris. His mussed hair, the smear of dark red at his mouth.

Cassian’s jaw ticked. His shoulders squared. The old storm rose in him, enough that the air itself seemed to shiver with it. Nesta felt the temperature of the room change, the way conversations dipped, faltered. The social radar of a party pricked sharp, tuned to the scent of incoming drama.

He pushed off the counter, every inch of him bristling, radiating the dominance that had once thrilled Nesta. Now it only grated.

His voice cracked through the room harsher than the moment required, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Are you fucking serious, Nesta?” The disbelief in his tone twisted with jealousy, with hurt. “Do you really wanna be that petty?”

The words cut through the chatter, silencing it. Heads turned openly now. Someone half-choked on their drink. A girl leaning against the fridge pressed her hand to her mouth to smother a grin.

And Cassian, oblivious or too furious to care, went on.

“You think this is funny? That dragging him into this will fix whatever the fuck’s broken between us? You think using him—” he jerked his chin at Eris, fury practically steaming off him “—is gonna prove your fucking point?”

His chest heaved, his voice dragging her name into the center of the room as though she owed him explanation.

Nesta froze. Spine locked, throat tight.

An old reflex in response to the script she knew too well: Cassian loud, her defensive, fighting back because that was the only way to feel like she mattered to him. 

She could feel the eyes, the weight of a hundred curious stares, burning into her skin until she could almost feel herself slipping into the role again.

She opened her mouth, sharp words already coiling on her tongue—ready to strike back, ready to draw blood where it hurt most—

And then Eris moved.

An arm slid around her waist, firm and steady. His hand rested low at her hip, possessive in a way that didn’t feel like an act at all. A gesture that read, to everyone watching, as already claimed. Already chosen.

Nesta exhaled, the tightness in her chest loosening.

Cassian faltered, his step checked mid-stride. His shoulders jerked, thrown by the sight. This wasn’t the fight he’d expected, wasn’t the ground he’d chosen.

Eris didn’t even bother to glare. He found her hand beneath the counter’s edge, his fingers brushing hers in a question.

Nesta’s pulse spiked. She squeezed once. Permission.

Go on.

Eris leaned back just enough to look lazy, almost bored, the very picture of someone who held the upper hand without effort.

“I don’t feel particularly used,” he drawled, each syllable deliberate. “In fact—” his thumb stroked once along the back of her hand “—I’m perfectly happy picking up where you fumbled.”

Cassian’s face went red.

Eris’s smirk cut cruel and precise. “I just thought you should know what you lost.”

The insult didn’t need volume. Even quietly, they had a weight Cassian’s shouting couldn’t match.

The crowd shifted, a ripple of almost gleeful tension humming through the room. Someone choked back a laugh. The edges of conversation buzzed, bright with hungry disbelief.

Cassian’s mouth opened. Closed. His eyes darted, fury and disbelief battling on his face, trying and failing to find footing.

And Nesta only watched, caught between exhilaration and dread. For once, it wasn’t her back against the wall.

Cassian’s jaw flexed once more. His hand twitched—instinct, habit, whatever it was—and he reached for her wrist like he had a hundred times before. The familiar gesture of someone who’d always assumed she’d be within reach.

But Eris was faster.

His hand snapped up, catching Cassian’s arm at the elbow. Not violent, not hard enough to start a brawl—but enough to halt him in his tracks. Enough to make the message clear.

Don’t.

His expression didn’t change; his smile remained faint, almost pleasant, as though nothing at all had happened.

Cassian went rigid, stunned that anyone—least of all Eris—had dared to check him. His voice came out rough, jagged. “Nesta and I need to—”

“You need to let go,” Eris cut in. His tone was low but it carried, perfectly pitched to reach the crowd of listeners. “Don’t embarrass yourself.”

The kitchen had gone still, conversations suspended midair, leaving only the hum of the fridge and the faint bass thudding from the living room. Dozens of eyes darted between the three of them, the tension a live wire. 

And Nesta saw it hit Cassian then—the awareness of the audience. Of how visible this was.

Cassian’s nostrils flared. His chest rose once, twice, like he was gathering himself.

But he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Eris’s calm, his restraint, was damning in a way that shouting never could be.

And for the first time, Cassian looked smaller. Off-balance.

Eris released him with an easy flick of his wrist, as though Cassian had been no more than an annoyance. Without missing a beat, he turned to the counter, plucked up the drink Nesta had abandoned earlier, and offered it to her with smooth indifference. An afterthought.

Someone across the room muttered “holy shit” under their breath, but Nesta hardly cared.

His arm draped around her shoulders.

“Shall we?” His tone was so maddeningly casual it almost made her laugh.

He guided her toward the doorway.

Cassian bristled, took half a step forward—ready to follow.

Eris turned his head just enough, a warning sparking in his eyes. His voice dropped low, too quiet for anyone but Cassian and Nesta to hear. “You’ll make an ass of yourself.”

And the trap was set. Because moving now, proving Eris right, would be worse than standing there choking on his fury. The watching crowd kept Cassian frozen where he stood, jaw locked tight, rage bottled behind his teeth.

Nesta tilted her chin. Instead of shrinking, instead of apologizing, she angled her body into Eris’s side. Close enough to read as deliberate. A clear, silent message.

I choose this. It’s not a petty game.

Except it was. Even if the thought stung in the strangest way.

Her cool smile felt better than any vicious argument ever had. Cassian could read it however he wanted.

Eris steered her into the living room, where a cluster of guests sprawled across one of the smaller couches. Nesta didn’t hesitate. One hard glare from her was enough to scatter them, muttering excuses as they scrambled up. Eris’s mouth twitched in approval.

“After you,” he said with exaggerated gallantry, gesturing at the empty seat.

Nesta sat without hesitation, spine straight. He dropped down beside her, arm settling easily around her shoulders again with the same easy possessiveness he’d worn all night. 

The display was perfectly arranged, intimate. 

The audience had seen enough, whispers were already spinning outward like sparks.

And still, for the first time since walking into this party, Nesta felt like she could breathe.

She leaned ever so slightly into Eris as she murmured, “Thank you.” 

The words tasted strange on her tongue. Strange, but not wrong.

Eris waved them off with a lazy smirk. “Don’t thank me. I’ve never had this much fun dealing with him before.”

A huff of laughter escaped her. Unwilling. But genuine.

And sitting there, in the eye of the storm, Nesta knew the difference.

Cassian’s possessiveness had always felt like dominance. Like a cage she had to shrink into, a demand that forced her smaller in public and private alike.

Eris’s—arrogant as it was—felt different. Grounding. Protective. He didn’t try to minimize her. If anything, he framed her more sharply, more visible. He remembered things. He listened. He didn’t sand down her edges. He let them cut, and smiled when they did. 

He held himself like a shield without ever demanding she kneel behind it.

And the realization unfurled with a wicked curl of satisfaction and a traitorous spark of warmth.

She was enjoying herself. Enjoying him.

Far more than she should.

The awareness sat low and dangerous. A warning and a temptation both.

The couch was tucked into a corner of the living room, half-shielded from the main press of the party. The bass rattled through the floorboards. Laughter rose and fell from the kitchen and dining room. But here, with him close, it felt like they had stepped sideways into something quieter. Smaller.

Eris lounged with infuriating ease, long legs stretched out just enough that Nesta’s knee brushed against his with every shift. He looked perfectly comfortable, like he hadn’t just gutted her ex in front of half the house. One arm was draped lazily along the back cushions, fingers idly brushing against the ends of her hair. And he knew exactly what he was doing.

Still, she found herself leaning into the space his arm created behind her shoulders, tucked into a semblance of privacy while the party roared on around them.

It should have felt like theater still. Like an act, carefully curated for the crowd’s eyes. But the crowd had already lost interest, half drunk, busy with games and shouting contests. No one was looking anymore. Which made it worse. Or better. She couldn’t decide.

Nesta took a sip of the half-forgotten drink Eris had made for her, only then remembering it was still in her hand. The taste hit her tongue and startled her. Sweet but tart, with the faint bitterness of tonic water threading through.

She paused.

The drink was… good. Shockingly good. 

Her brows knit slightly as she tipped the glass back again, tasting more carefully. Not just good. Intentional. Exactly how she liked it.

Between this and the chocolate cookies in the pantry, she couldn’t help but wonder—how closely had he been paying attention, remembering things she’d let slip over the years?

How many details had he filed away, stored like weapons for some future game?

Unsettling. And yet… not unwelcome.

Eris dipped his head, his mouth finding the delicate curve of her ear. His breath was warm as he murmured, “You do realize I stole you on purpose, don’t you?”

She instantly forgot about her suspicion.

Her head snapped a fraction toward him, eyes narrowed, even as her voice lacked its usual bite. “You’re insufferable.”

“True,” he conceded smoothly, eyes glinting with that fox-like amusement. “But admit it—it felt good. To be wanted. To be chosen deliberately, not tolerated.”

The words landed like a punch to her sternum. Too close. She tried to scoff, to dismiss it, but her throat was tight. 

He wasn’t wrong. And the smirk on his lips didn’t quite disguise the serious weight beneath his tone.

She made herself hold his gaze, unflinching. After a long, stretched heartbeat, she reluctantly forced the words out.

“Fine. Maybe it did.”

His grin spread, triumphant without being gloating. “And you claimed I’m not charming.”

She drew in a breath, ready with a biting retort—only to realize with a start how close they had leaned toward each other. Close enough that if either of them breathed too deep, their noses might brush. The proximity sent a jolt of electricity through her before she jerked back slightly, feigning disdain when in truth she just needed air.

Eris noticed. Of course he noticed. But instead of pouncing, instead of needling, his expression softened into something almost curious. He only tipped his head against the back of the couch, watching her sidelong. “How about another game?” His voice was deceptively lazy, though the sharpness in his gaze gave him away. “A secret for a secret. I’ll trade you.”

Her brows arched. “That’s your idea of a game?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

Nesta scoffed, folding her arms. “That depends. What kind of secrets are you after?”

“The real kind,” he said. “For instance—what did Cassian ever do to deserve you? And I’m not trying to be a dick this time. I just genuinely don’t understand.”

Nesta let out a derisive sound, rolling her eyes. “Careful. You’re starting to sound jealous.”

But he only tugged at a stray strand of her hair gently, waiting.

She almost told him to go to hell. But something about his expression—open, curious—pulled the truth from her instead.

With a resigned huff, she gave in. “It wasn’t all terrible. He has a heart of gold, for all his… other faults. He helped me through a hard time, after my father died. I needed someone then, and he was there. Always. He kept showing up, even when I treated him like shit.” She paused, spinning her glass in her hand absently. “But eventually, it wasn’t enough. We weren’t right for each other. Not really. And I think we both knew it.”

She braced for guilt or shame, for the familiar sting of failure. But to her surprise, it didn’t come. She felt… lighter, in a way.

No sharp pang, no fresh wound reopening. Just quiet. 

Because if she was being completely honest with herself, maybe she had checked out months ago.

And now? Maybe she really was starting to get over it.

“You sound less upset about it than earlier,” Eris observed, studying her.

Nesta blinked, startled by the truth of it. “I am.”

His smug mouth opened, but she wasn’t about to let him steer the conversation away after prying that out of her. “Your turn. What about you?”

“Me?” He breathed the fakest little laugh she’d ever heard from him. “I have no interest in Cassian. Don’t worry, love.”

Her unimpressed stare could’ve leveled stone. “Hilarious. You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

She gestured at him with her glass.

“You can’t tell me you’re still hung up on Mor after three years.” She tilted her head, curiosity sharper than she wanted it to be. “I don’t think I’ve seen you date anyone since. How come?” 

He already started—too quick, too defensive—so she cut him off before he could say what she knew was coming. “Hookups don’t count.”

His teeth clicked shut, a half-hearted smirk coming up like a shield. “Who’s jealous now, Archeron?”

For the second time that night, she considered throwing her drink in his face.

He hesitated, a flicker crossing his face before the smooth mask returned.

“I don’t know. I guess I just haven’t found the right person yet.” His lips twisted, grimacing at the cliché. “God, that sounds fucking insufferable. But it’s true. I don’t want to waste time on someone I can’t fully commit to. Maybe I’m more of a romantic than you give me credit for.”

Nesta narrowed her eyes. It sounded too careful. Too neat. And she had heard him spew his half-truths for long enough to know when he was hiding something.

He sighed, relenting under the weight of her glare, his voice softening in a way that felt almost unguarded. “Or maybe I’m just too much of a coward to try again.”

The heaviness of it hung between them, enough to tilt her stomach in a way she didn’t like.

Then, mercifully, he shifted gears, voice lightening in an instant. “Besides, have you seen my girlfriend? She’s stunning. Why would I ever want anyone else?”

Nesta scoffed, half exasperated, half… something else. “Shut up.”

But he caught it—the twitch at her lips she hadn’t been quick enough to smother.

“Dangerously close to another smile,” he murmured softly, clearly keeping score.

Somewhere between his last jab and the faint curl of her mouth, Nesta realized she’d tilted toward him without noticing. Her shoulder angled toward his chest, her knee brushing his thigh with every small shift. His arm was still slung lazily across the back of the couch, but his fingers toyed idly with her hair, like it was thoughtless, like he wasn’t even aware of it.

She told herself it was part of the act. All of it was part of the act.

But her pulse said otherwise.

The tiny tugs in her hair sent waves of goosebumps down her spine, steady as a drumbeat.

Before she could scold herself though, movement in her periphery made her look up. 

Lucien had emerged from the basement and was passing behind them, another bottle of champagne tucked under his arm. His gaze flicked to where Nesta sat tucked into Eris’s side, sharp and assessing, before his mouth curled into a foxlike smirk.

Yeah, these two were definitely related.

“Well,” he mused, pausing just long enough to be a nuisance. “This little drama is better than half the stupid party games I planned. You should consider a career in acting, both of you.”

Nesta braced instinctively for the impending flush of mortification, for the embarrassment of being caught. But it didn’t land the way she expected.

Instead, she rolled her eyes and said primly, “Glad to provide the entertainment. You’ll get my invoice next week. Hope you can afford my rates.”

Lucien barked a laugh and gave her a mock salute, before carrying on.

Eris was watching her when she turned back, eyes alight with private delight. “Did you just let that roll off? He gets to keep his head?” His grin tilted into something crooked, those damn dimples flashing again. “Mark the calendar, love. This is a historic night.”

She cleared her throat, trying for nonchalance, half desperate to change the subject.

“Don’t get used to it,” she muttered, trying to redirect. “Once winter break is over, you’re all done for. If I hear the phrase contractual obligations one more time, I’ll have to set something on fire.”

Eris hummed as if weighing the idea, his expression mock-thoughtful. “So we’re getting into arson now? Not the—what did you call it—evil rich boy hobby I envisioned, but I’ll try anything once.”

A laugh escaped her before she could bite it back, loosening something knotted in her chest. Her lips snapped shut, but it was too late. He’d seen it.

Eris’s eyes lit up at once, the gleam of a predator catching prey. And while she was distracted, he plucked the glass right back out of her hand.

“Really?” she protested, weakly.

He didn’t hoard it this time, didn’t turn it into a performance. He only took one slow sip, his throat working as he swallowed, eyes never leaving hers. Then he handed it back, his fingers grazing her knuckles with deliberate care. A fleeting touch, but it sent a spark racing up her arm all the same.

She took her drink back with her absolute flattest look, one perfected over years of disdain.

But it only seemed to encourage him more.

The grin he wore deepened, all teeth. He leaned in, his voice dropping to something low, something private. “You’re not only sharp,” he murmured, “you’re unfairly beautiful when you look at me like that. It’s dangerous.”

She wondered distantly how much more stress her heart could take tonight before it qualified as a medical condition.

Before she could muster a reply, his hand moved, slowly. He reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Just a quiet, deliberate touch, fingers lingering longer than necessary against the side of her neck. The warmth there sent a shiver tumbling down her spine.

She kept telling herself it was part of the game. Like every gesture had been.

But he didn’t push it. Didn’t tease, didn’t smirk or press for a reaction. He just let his hand fall back, as though it had been nothing.

And for the first time, she wasn’t quick enough to wrestle her thoughts back into line. A hollow drop opened in her stomach, a feeling she horrifyingly recognized as… disappointment.

Because—stupidly, irrationally—she wanted him to mean it.

She sat back a little and stared hard into her glass, watching bubbles climb in quick, frantic spirals through the pink liquid. Trying to collect herself.

With Eris—this insufferable menace of a bastard who swaggered through life like the world should fall at his feet, and still acted like he’d crawl for her with one word—she could laugh. She could bare her teeth, bite, spit fire, and he only met her there. He never once flinched.

It was like breathing easier after years of suffocating.

The thought was intoxicating. And painful. Because she couldn’t help but compare it to Cassian. The exhausting, endless effort of trimming herself into something palatable, until she was unrecognizable even to herself.

When truly, all she had ever really wanted was… this. Someone who met her, matched her, made her want to be herself.

She set her jaw, trying not to dwell. But the thought lodged anyway, curling deep and strangely disheartening.

The hum of the party pressed faint around them, muffled and unimportant. And Nesta realized suddenly that she’d stopped tracking the room. She wasn’t scanning for eyes or judgement, wasn’t waiting for interruption.

She was simply here. With him.

And she liked it far too much.

Almost enough to mourn that it was fake. Almost.

Maybe not just almost.

And—definitely not just almost—she didn’t want to go back to hating him.

The garden was crammed with people, the space already alive with noise and anticipation. Fairy lights had been strung along the fence in looping arcs, glowing soft and golden against the dark, blurring in the haze of breath and winter mist. Someone had dragged a speaker outside that blared a half-slurred pop song, fighting with the chatter and shrieks of party guests.

Coats wrapped tight, glasses raised, people huddled in clusters. Champagne sparkled in the dim light, fizz rising in unsteady hands. 

The sharp sweetness of sparklers already burned at the edges of the crowd, their acrid trails winding ghostlike into the night.

Nesta pulled in a lungful of the cold air, but it wasn’t the temperature that made her shiver.

Eris’s coat weighed heavy across her shoulders. Dark wool lined with something softer, warmer, carrying the faint trace of his cologne—impossible to name, but distinctly him.

His arm was still firm around her waist, drawing her close, his hand resting low at her hip. She could feel the slow, steady drag of his thumb rubbing circles against her hipbone, absent but deliberate, like he couldn’t stop himself.

Every place they connected flared too bright. The solid line of his body against her side. The heat of his breath where it ghosted her ear, close enough that she caught its rhythm. Even the steady thrum of his pulse where his chest pressed against her shoulder. She told herself it was only the act still, a performance carried this far—but her body had long since stopped listening.

And she hated herself for it. For how much she noticed, how much she craved the closeness.

Her thoughts tangled, running ahead of themselves. How far would he take this game of theirs? Would he kiss her at midnight, just to sell the performance one last time?

The thought should have filled her with dread. Instead, it scraped something raw in her chest. Because she remembered the rules, the line she herself had drawn. 

No kissing. That had been part of their deal.

The pang that cracked through her chest was sharp, startling. A ridiculous flash of regret.

She clenched her teeth against it, tried to breathe through it. Forced herself to remember it wasn’t real. None of it was.

But the ache returned anyway, deep and stubborn, doubling on itself until it burned behind her ribs, until it felt like a bruise she couldn’t stop pressing.

Her stomach pitched.

Holy shit, she thought, panic and longing snarling together. I really fucked myself over.

She had known it was a bad idea, walking into this game with him. But she hadn’t realized it would end like this—standing in the garden with her heart in tatters, wishing for something she had no business wishing for.

She wanted it to be real. God, she wanted it so badly her chest physically hurt. A hollow twinge that deepened every time she glanced at his profile, every time she felt the subtle strength of his hand steady at her side.

She couldn’t even bring herself to think about the gentleness of his touch, the way he held her steady against the press of the crowd around them.

All she felt was the dull pain of knowing it would end, that soon the night would be over, and she’d have to let it go.

The countdown rolled through the garden—

“Ten…”

The sound rippled outward, glasses lifting higher, voices rising in unison. The whole crowd reached toward midnight like a rising tide. Fireworks crackled faintly in the distance, impatient, echoing against the night.

Nesta’s own heart stuttered, then pounded faster. A live, frantic thing in her chest.

The world around her narrowed to the icy sting of the air, the fizz of sparklers, the weight of Eris’s hand.

“Nine…”

She thought of every moment that had brought her here—the strange relief of spilling her truths to him, the quiet anchor of his hand finding hers against Cassian’s anger, the stolen fruit in the kitchen, her back against the pantry door, his laugh too close, his gaze too sharp. Every reckless piece of theater threaded with something that had never felt like pretending.

All of it tangled now into one bright, unbearable ache behind her ribs that left her gasping for air.

“Eight…”

Eris shifted against her side, turning just enough that his breath feathered over her cheek.

Too close—far closer than any performance required. She could feel the hesitation in him, the weight of it pressing just as heavily as his arm around her waist as he gently guided her to face him.

His warmth bled into her skin, his eyes catching in the soft light as they found hers, unguarded at last. That untouchable mask of smug detachment slipped.

For once he looked almost… uncertain. Torn. Pained.

“Seven…”

The chant crested around them, pressing in.

The gold of his eyes sparked with another lonely firework going off too soon. His breath fogged the air between them, too fast, his chest rising unevenly.

His voice was low, barely a whisper against the noise.

“Can I?”

“Six…”

Panic clawed up her throat. 

Reflex screamed at her to deflect, to armor herself. To shut it down before it could become something she couldn’t take back. To say something sharp enough to cut through the moment before it could shatter her completely.

“We proved our point,” she managed, brittle, her shield cracking even as she raised it. The protest rang hollow in the night air, false even to her own ears.

“Five…”

His hand lifted slowly. Unsteady fingers cradled her jaw, thumb brushing feather-light across her cheekbone. Her knees nearly buckled at the gentleness of it—so careful she didn’t know how to take it.

“Four…”

His gaze searched hers, fear flickering there like a live wire, and for the first time she thought he might actually be afraid.

“I know,” he said softly, raw enough to crack something inside her. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you for years.”

“Three…”

Her breath stuttered, caught. The world blurred at the edges, drowned out by the rasp of her own breathing, the wild hammering of her pulse in her ears, the impossible warmth of his touch. Her chest strained like it couldn’t contain the ache building there.

“Two…”

Her throat worked. And then, against every jagged wall she had ever built, against every reason to resist, against every rule she had written herself into—

“Yes.”

Fragile. Breathless. Devastatingly true.

“One!”

The garden erupted.

Sparklers hissed brighter, flaring arcs of white-gold into the dark. Fireworks cracked overhead, scattering color across the night sky. Glasses clinked, champagne foaming over and spilling onto gloved hands.

Voices tangled together in a drunken chorus of “Happy New Year!”—wild, jubilant, chaotic.

The world tilted into chaos, celebration burning loud and messy around them.

But none of it touched her.

All Nesta felt was Eris’s steady gaze as he tipped his head, closing the final sliver of space between them. One hand stayed firm at her jaw, anchoring her face with startling gentleness, while the other slid around her back, pulling her flush to him, his palm burning steadily at her hip.

His breath shuddered, once, heat ghosting across her lips.

And then—his mouth found hers.

Desperate, hungry, but devastatingly careful in a way that stole the breath from her lungs—as though he were testing something breakable, terrified it might shatter if he pressed too hard.

His lips were hot against hers, soft but insistent, parting her mouth with a patience that trembled against urgency. His thumb traced up the curve of her jaw, tilting her head just so, deepening, pressing. His other hand anchored her lower back, firm enough that she could feel the strength leashed in every inch of him.

The kiss struck like a lit match. Bright. Startling. Alive.

Instinct took over before thought could catch up. Nesta clutched at him with both arms, winding them tight around his neck, dragging him closer. Her fingers tangled desperately in the silk of his hair, pulling hard, anchoring herself to him like he was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her mouth opened against his, answering without hesitation, fierce and unrestrained. A surrender that felt like defiance. 

And he met it head-on. Matched it. Matched her.

Nesta gasped, her lips parting, and he swallowed the sound greedily. Heat flared through her when his tongue slid against hers—slow, coaxing, then deeper, surer, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

Her body betrayed her in every way, knees trembling, chest heaving, heart hammering so hard she swore he had to feel it through her ribs.

But he kept her steady. His thumb stroked her jaw in small, reverent sweeps even as the kiss burned hotter, both tenderness and desperation wound so tight it left her shaking. The sharp edge of need braided with a gentleness that made her chest constrict all over again, raw and unbearable. Every pull of his mouth against hers was heat and ache and promise, all at once.

The world fell away.

Fireworks bloomed overhead, red and gold light skittering across her closed eyelids.  People screamed, laughed, kissed around them, but the noise muffled to a dull hum, cushioned and far away. The cold sting of winter air, the sulfur bite of sparklers, the clatter of champagne glasses—all of it blurred until there was only this.

Until the only real thing was the single, undeniable center of him. The heat of his mouth, the taste of champagne still lingering on his tongue, the press of his chest against hers, the solid strength of his arms holding her close.

Her thoughts spun, dizzy and frantic, until only one surfaced.

I didn’t know it could feel like this.

At last, they broke apart for air, gasping. Their foreheads pressed together for a moment, ragged breaths mingling clouded and hazy in the cold night.

Nesta’s chest heaved, lungs burning with cold air she couldn’t quite pull in fast enough.

The silence between them was deafening, brimming with everything she couldn’t put into words.

She stared at him, dazed, grasping for the reminder that this was pretend—that it was only a game. But the devastating warmth in his smile, the steady anchor of his hand still pressed against her back, cracked through her defenses. 

Because she didn’t believe that it was still an act.

And maybe it never had been.

Her gaze searched his, frantic for an answer. But Eris’s smile only tilted into something crooked, dimples on full display. He gave her waist a single, deliberate squeeze. 

Once. Their agreed signal. 

Go on.

Something in her broke.

With her arms still looped around his neck, she hauled him back down and kissed him again. Harder this time. 

No hesitation. No pretense.

Her lips crashed against his, open and hungry. She clung to him like she might fall without him, nails scraping lightly against the nape of his neck, dragging through his hair. The strands slid between her knuckles as she pulled him closer, arching into him, desperate to erase the last space between them.

He groaned low against her mouth, the sound shuddering through her chest and making her knees threaten to give out. His hand left her hip to splay firmly at her spine, the other sliding up to cradle the back of her head, angling her for him. He kissed her harder, hungrier, stealing the air from her lungs. His tongue stroked against hers, hot and demanding, claiming every inch of her as though he’d been starving for it.

Her body pressed flush to his, every nerve lit, every line of her leaning into this, into him. And he gave it all back, met every demand, let the restraint he’d been holding unravel completely. 

She could feel the solid line of him everywhere—his chest, his thighs braced against hers, the wild thud of his heartbeat against her skin.

Heat coiled low and sharp, flooding through her as he devoured her with aching hunger and startling gentleness all at once. Enough to ignite every place he touched her, his hand in her hair, his palm protective at her spine, as if he couldn’t bear to let her go.

When they finally tore apart, the world had already moved on. Sparklers were guttering out at the edges of the scattering crowd, smoke curling through the night. The fireworks were dimming, fewer bursts of color lighting the sky now. People were already stumbling back toward the warmth of the house, drunk on champagne and the turn of the year.

But Nesta barely registered any of it.

Her pulse rioted in her veins, her breath unsteady, her body trembling with the aftershock.

And Eris looked just as undone, his flushed face bright with something raw and reverent. His chest was still rising hard against hers, his mouth parted like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. 

His arm tightened around her, holding her against him like he had no intention of letting the world reclaim her. His lips curved in a wicked, breathless smile, but the sharp edges were gone. He looked… wrecked. Radiant. His eyes burned gold, soft and triumphant, like he’d just won everything.

His thumb traced her cheekbone once more, as if memorizing the shape of her.

When their eyes met, the same astonishment was written there that thrummed through her—like neither of them had expected to survive this kiss intact. 

His laugh rumbled low, shaky, disbelieving. His hair was mussed from her hands, his lips swollen, his smile brighter than she’d ever seen it. Dimples carved deep, and she knew she was lost.

It punched something open in her chest. He wasn’t pretending. Not for a second.

He held her like she was something precious, irreplaceable, and it shattered every defense she had left.

She hadn’t felt this alive, this deliriously happy, in years. And it was with the one man she’d sworn she hated.

Eris only beamed down at her. And she could do nothing but stare back in absolute wonder.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—like a vow pressed to her lips, like fire stitched beneath her skin.

This wasn’t supposed to be a beginning, she thought, shivering as his warmth stayed wrapped around her tighter, as his mouth curved into that crooked smile meant only for her.

But pressed close to him, his warmth still anchoring her, the taste of him still lingering on her lips, she knew with stunning clarity: And now I don’t want it to stop.