Raylen #2
The suffocating press of the crowd closes in.
I paste on a polite, practiced smile, but internally, my chest tightens.
The familiar, cold prickle of a panic attack begins to claw at the back of my throat.
The thousands of staring eyes, the noise, the trapping weight of my name. It’s too much. I’m drowning.
Then, a large, firm hand cuts through the chaos, wrapping securely around my knuckles.
I blink, looking over. Sylar has stepped directly between me and a pair of giggling debutantes.
His tall, broad frame is pulled up to its full, commanding height, his grumpy scholar demeanor transforming into a shield of pure steel.
He doesn’t look at the crowd. He keeps his brilliant eyes locked entirely on me, anchoring me to the earth.
Suddenly, our roles have reversed, and it’s Sylar taking care of me. I swallow hard.
“Raylen,” Sylar says, his voice loud, steady, and brooks no argument as he squeezes my hand.
“But Talia.”
“We’ll try again tomorrow. We’ve been at this all day. We need to eat and relax a bit. Let’s go home.”
The word home hits me like a physical wave, completely shattering the rising panic in my chest. He means the rental cottage. He means our space.
Cinder swoops down from the sky, pressing her comforting weight against my body, as if agreeing with Sylar’s words.
“Yes,” I breathe, tightly gripping his hand.
Sylar doesn’t wait for the crowd to clear. He uses his broad shoulders to part the sea of fawning elves, fiercely tugging me along behind him as he leads the way out of the suffocating pavilion, his hand never once letting go of mine.
The night air is thick and balmy, clinging to our skin like a warm silk shroud.
Midsummer has left the earth radiating heat, making the cool breeze drifting across the porch a sweet relief.
Between us sit two heavy crystal glasses of Solar Tea, the liquid practically humming with trapped sunlight, casting a warm, golden luminescence across the dark wooden floorboards.
And yet, I can’t keep my eyes off him.
Every time Sy shifts, the pale moonlight catches the intricate silver embroidery trailing along the lapels of his robes, making the threads shimmer.
Sylar saved me today.
We idle away the hour by tossing back and forth the latest nonsense from the gossip rags, our laughter soft against the chirp of the crickets. But the playful mood shifts when Sylar tilts his head, his eyes fixing on my bracelet.
“So,” he starts, his voice dropping an octave. “Is it true what the papers are saying? That you plan on gifting some lucky elf with a necklace that matches your signature charm?”
My gaze drops to the silver chain wrapped around my wrist. I reach down, my thumb slowly tracing the cool metal of the pendant, twisting it deliberately. I know exactly whose neck that weight will grace soon enough.
“It’s true,” I say softly, locking my eyes with his. You’ll be wearing my claim soon enough, Sy.
As if reading the thoughts practically screaming in my head, a sudden, delicious shade of crimson stains his cheeks. But he doesn’t duck his head like he used to when we were kids. He doesn’t back down. There’s a new, quiet defiance in the way he holds my gaze, and it makes my pulse quicken.
I like it.
Yet, rather than letting him drown in his own embarrassment, I offer him an out, softening my voice to a murmur. “You still talk to the stars?”
Sylar’s eyes widen, a breathless laugh escaping his lips. “Oh, goddess, you actually remember that?”
“Of course I do.”
He hesitates, looking up at the velvet expanse above us.
“Well, on Midsummer, the sky is different. My mother used to tell me the myth of the Summer Stars. She said that during the solstice, the two brightest constellations—the Sun Chaser and the Moon Weaver—are allowed to drift close enough to finally touch. For only one night, their starlight mingles, creating a bridge of sparks across the heavens. If you whisper your heart’s truest desire into the dark while they overlap, the sky holds onto it forever. ”
Suddenly, as if realizing how breathless he sounds, his mouth snaps shut. He bites his plush lower lip.
“No, don’t stop,” I urge, leaning closer. That sweet honey cake scent drifts between us. “Keep talking. I find the way you recount the myths fascinating, Sy. Truly. It’s so much better than anything those stuffy tutors ever droned on about.”
He purses his lips, a mock frown crossing his face, though his eyes are bright. “You’re making fun of me.”
“No. Not at all,” I say, completely earnest now. “You were always so much more informed than they were. Passionate. I’ve always loved the way you talk.”
Another blush spreads across his features, violent and beautiful in the golden glow of the tea.
This time, the heat travels rapidly past his cheeks, tipping the tops of his ears and disappearing down into the collar of his tunic.
I blink, mentally replaying my words, wondering what exactly I’d said to make his heart race like that.
Before I can ask, Sylar ducks his head, his fingers nervously tracing the rim of his glass. “I’ve always liked your voice too,” he whispers into his lap.
I cock a brow, a slow smile tugging at my lips. “What was that?”
He shakes his head quickly, refusing to meet my eyes, and points a trembling finger back toward the glittering sky.
“I-I just mean… look at them. The Moon-Weaver is already beginning to cross the silver belt. The myth says that if you don’t look closely, you’ll miss the exact moment the stars bleed into one another. ”
But I’m not looking at the sky.
My eyes memorize the hollow of Sy’s throat, watching the frantic, erratic jump of his pulse against his collarbone. His breathing is shallow.
The distance between us feels unbearable. I close the gap slowly, the heat radiating off him drawing me in until the space between us evaporates. I lean in, tilting my head until our foreheads gently touch, the tips of our noses brushing. I can feel the warm puff of his exhale against my lips.
“I used to find my way by the stars,” I whisper, my voice thick with a decade’s worth of unspoken truths. “But I think I’ve been heading in the wrong direction for ten years.”
The breath catches in Sylar’s throat, the sound sharp and small in the quiet space between us.
For a heartbeat, the world completely stills.
The balmy night breeze dies down, the crickets seem to fade into the background, and all that exists is the heat radiating from his skin and the frantic, beautiful look in his gaze.
He doesn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes flutter shut, his long lashes sweeping against his flushed cheeks. I can feel the trembling breath he takes, a sudden wave of resolve washing over him that makes the air between us feel electric.
Then, Sylar closes the final, agonizing inch.
He initiates our kiss with a fierce, quiet desperation, as if he’s spent those same ten years waiting for permission. His lips ghost over mine.
Soft, warm, and tasting faintly of the sweet sugar and Solar Tea.
A soft gasp slips from my throat, but before I can even process the shock of it, Sylar’s hands move. His fingers, cool against the midsummer heat of my skin, slide up to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath my ear. The touch is sensual and claiming.
I groan.
The kiss deepens, shifting from a hesitant question into a breathless, aching certainty. It’s tender but possessive, a release of a decade’s worth of unspoken longing that leaves my head spinning.
My hands instinctively find his waist, pulling him flush against me until the silver embroidery of his robes presses into my chest. The world could end right here on this porch, beneath the bleeding light of the solstice stars, and I wouldn’t care. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.