Over the next week, Myrelion made a habit of taking Lira out.
Not to loud, crowded places. But quiet gardens. River walks. The soft light of tea parlors. He didn't speak much—but he listened. Lira, in turn, bloomed like a flower under his gaze.
She told him of the little dreams she once had—of opening a flower shop, of singing in taverns, of what she'd name her child.
"What if it's a boy?" Myrelion asked during one walk beneath hanging willow trees.
"Then… maybe 'Auren.' It sounds hopeful."
"And if it's a girl?"
Lira blushed. "Maybe… 'Myrelia'?"
He stopped walking.
She froze. "I-I was joking, you don't have to—!"
He chuckled.
Actually chuckled.
"Then I'd have to protect her twice as hard."
Lira covered her mouth, laughing softly. "You're kinder than you look."
"…Only to one person."
She looked up at him, eyes shimmering.
They stood beneath the willows, heartbeats syncing in the hush of dusk. And in that moment, Myrelion gently brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek.
"Lira," he whispered, "whatever happens, stay."
She nodded, eyes locked with his.
"I'm not going anywhere."