Chapter 20 Liam
LIAM
The observatory is nearly empty at this hour, save for the faint hum of starlight threading its way through the latticed ceiling.
Theo and I slip in through the side entrance, his idea, though he’d deny it if I said so aloud, and climb up to the ledge that overlooks the training grounds below.
The stone is cool beneath us, polished by decades of students who sat here before, dangling their legs in the same rebellious fashion we are now.
Theo uncorks the bottle of fae ale he’d smuggled back from Anvaris, the liquid inside glowing faintly, shifting in color with every tilt.
He hands it to me first, fingers brushing mine, delicate, lingering half a second longer than necessary.
The contact sends a pulse through my chest that I pretend I don’t feel.
I take a long drink. The ale burns sweetly, fizzing with a warmth that spreads through my shoulders, loosening the tension Locke’s silence had carved into me hours before.
Locke said almost nothing when we told him about Myrindale.
Nothing when I told him Harper was shaken.
Nothing when I demanded to know what he knew about my father’s bloodline.
His eyes had carried an anger that wasn’t directed at me, but it made me feel as though every mistake we’d made was carved across my skin.
I drink again. Harder this time.
Theo shifts beside me, his legs swinging over the edge in a lazy rhythm.
The starlight washes over him, illuminating the soft gold of his hair, the pale milky cast of his eyes.
He holds his wand loosely in one hand, turning it so the light catches the silver filigree in the handle.
His gaze, unfocused but intent, travels along its length as if he’s reading something in the vibration of the air.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs, voice low, brushing against the silence rather than breaking it.
“I talked enough for both of us tonight,” I mutter, leaning back on my hands. “Locke barely looked at me. And when he did…”
I exhale sharply, the air leaving me in an uneven rush. “I don’t know if he was angry at us or at himself.”
Theo doesn’t immediately respond. He draws in a slow breath, letting the night air settle in his lungs before he speaks.
“He’s worried,” Theo says softly. “And worried men say too little or too much. Locke is the former. Always has been.”
His tone is gentle enough that it settles something inside me, even as the rest of me remains knotted.
I glance over at him. He’s still studying the wand’s reflection, as though watching the stars through it. His sightless eyes catch the faint glow of the fae ale beside him, and something about the way the light paints his features tugs at me.
“You always know what to say,” I tell him before I can stop myself.
Theo lets out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if he hadn’t sounded so tired. “Not always. And rarely the right thing. But I’m trying.”
I shift slightly, and our shoulders brush, a soft contact, accidental. I don’t move away. Neither does he.
The warmth from the ale seeps deeper into my limbs, smoothing the sharp edges of the day.
The stars above look close enough to touch, scattered across the sky like someone spilled silver dust and forgot to sweep it up.
Theo tilts his head toward them, his expression softening the longer he sits there.
“I didn’t… thank you,” I say, voice quieter than intended. “For earlier. At Myrindale. You kept pace with us better than anyone could have expected. You knew exactly where to be.”
Theo’s lips curve, faint and fleeting. “You walk loudly,” he replies, nudging my boot with his. “You and Harper both. It’s easy to follow the two of you. You move with purpose.”
“And you?” I ask before I can swallow the words. “What do you move with?”
Theo is silent for a long moment. His wand rests across his lap, the starlight glinting off its pale grain. His fingers tap lightly against it, tracing patterns I can’t read.
“Hope,” he says finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Or something pretending to be hope.”
His confession slips into the night like a secret he didn’t mean to share.
I look at him, really look at him, and something shifts low in my chest. His face is turned toward the sky, but his body leans subtly toward mine.
The distance we sat with earlier is gone, replaced by something far more delicate, far more dangerous.
His sleeve brushes mine. His knee angles closer. His breath softens in rhythm with mine.
The fae ale catches the air again, glowing faintly in his hand before he passes it back to me. I take it, fingers brushing his in a slow, unhurried glide that neither of us mistakes for accident.
Theo swallows, throat bobbing.
“Liam,” he says quietly, “you don’t have to pretend you’re alright.”
The words unravel something tight inside me, something I hadn’t realized was wound so painfully.
I set the bottle down beside me, letting the cool stone press against my palm. Theo shifts, turning just slightly, the smallest movement offering me his attention more fully than his eyes ever could.
His hand finds mine.
Not forcefully.
Not hesitantly.
Just a soft, searching touch, patient enough to let me decide whether to pull away.
I don’t.
I can’t.
The stars blur overhead, and for the first time since Myrindale, I breathe without feeling like the world is closing in around us.
Theo’s hand lingers around mine, warm and steady, and the quiet between us grows thick with something I don’t have a name for.
It settles over the observatory like a second atmosphere.
His thumb makes a slow, idle pass over my knuckles as though he’s thinking, not touching, but the effect on me is anything but thoughtful.
My chest pulls tighter. My breath stutters.
Before I realize what I’m doing, my body tips a little closer to him, not enough to be obvious, but enough that I feel the faint warmth radiating from his shoulder.
It’s instinctive, a pull I don’t understand, a moment where the world seems to narrow to the space between our legs dangling over the ledge and the place where our hands meet.
Then consciousness catches up, and shame hits me like cold water.
This is not a world where closeness like this is simple. Where reaching toward another boy is harmless. And certainly not when he’s blind, unable to see the flush creeping into my throat or the way my gaze drops, embarrassed at how easily I lost control.
I edge back just slightly, pulling my hand away with as much gentleness as I can muster, hoping the motion is subtle enough not to be noticed. Gratitude swells in my chest, ugly, relieved gratitude, that Theo can’t see the confusion on my face, the foolishness of the lean I almost completed.
“Seeing those Shadeborne scouts today…” My voice is rougher than I intend. I swallow, try again. “It reminded me why I can’t be reckless.”
Theo goes still beside me.
The observatory hums with quiet. Lantern light flickers across his features, catching pale lashes, the soft curve of his mouth. His head tilts toward me, the movement sharp in its precision, as though he’s tracing the sound of my heartbeat instead of my words.
“Why did you move away?” he asks, the question low, sincere.
It catches me completely off guard. My breath falters, and I scramble for footing that isn’t there.
“I… didn’t want to crowd you.” The excuse falls weakly between us, barely formed.
Theo shifts. His hand lifts with a careful intention, and before I can react, his fingertips brush the inside of my wrist, light as a breath. He finds my pulse with effortless accuracy, settling two fingers over it as though he’s done this a thousand times.
My heart betrays me instantly.
It hammers beneath his touch, each beat louder than the last. His fingers rest there, unmoving, steady, hearing everything I’m not saying.
A slow breath escapes him. Not dramatic, not surprised, just… knowing. Quietly, painfully knowing.
“Your heartbeat says otherwise,” he murmurs.
Heat rushes up my neck, blooming hot across my cheeks. I pray the starlight isn’t bright enough to reveal any of it. His thumb brushes once over the frantic rhythm tapping against his fingertips, a barely-there stroke that sinks straight through my composure.
I should pull back. I should. But the moment stretches, and instead of retreating, I sit perfectly still while his touch steadies over my skin.
“I-It’s been a long day,” I manage, though the words sound hollow to my own ears.
Theo’s lips curve in the faintest smile, one so subtle it feels like it was meant only for me. His posture softens, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s accepting something I haven’t had the courage to name.
“Yes,” he agrees quietly, “but not long enough to change the truth of this.”
His thumb glides across my pulse again. Not a tease. Not a claim. Just a touch that feels like a truth he’s offering without saying it aloud.
My chest aches with something I don’t dare unravel.
I don’t move away this time.
I can’t.
Not when his touch feels like the first honest moment I’ve had in days.
Theo doesn’t let go.
His fingers remain lightly pressed to my pulse, the warmth of his touch soaking into my skin in a way that feels far too intimate for how calmly he holds himself.
For all the restraint in his posture, there’s a softness in the way he tilts his head, just slightly, as though he’s listening to something only he can hear. Something inside me.
Before I realize what’s happening, the space between us shifts again. Not with a movement, not with words, just a quiet pull that draws us into the same gravity.
Theo leans forward first.