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faultline

summary: y/n is hardman’s right hand, but loyalties are shifting. harvey specter, a man from her past, shows up with a note, a dinner, and a chance to make things right…if the past stays buried long enough to try again.

warning: slightly oc harvey.

Part 1

The sleek black car rolled to a stop outside Y/n’s house. She gripped the door handle, knuckles white, and stepped into the cool evening air.

The street lay quiet under dying light, shadows stretching long across the pavement. She adjusted her jacket collar, gaze tilted upward at a sky streaked gold and fading blue. The day’s weight lingered—not heavy, but close.

She barely registered the street’s stillness before the deliberate crunch of footsteps—a presence that made itself known long before the words could reach her ears.

“Y/n.”

The name cut through the night, casual but sharp. Her stomach twisted with dread—and something she wasn’t ready to name, bracing against a wound that hadn’t fully healed.

He leaned against a low brick wall at the corner, one hand in his coat pocket, the other loose at his side. Shadows clung like armor, but his composure faltered for a brief second. A jaw muscle twitched—small, betraying more than he intended.

Her chest tightened at the sight of him—Harvey Specter, the golden boy. Untouchable, relentless, a man who could dismantle everything in his path.

Her eyes flicked to the line of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders. The memory of their last encounter pricked at her like a live wire, sharp, electric, a reminder of the man she once trusted—and shouldn’t have.

She swallowed, steadying herself, forcing control into every measured step as she approached.

“Still stunning as ever.”

She let out a soft, controlled laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Flattery already? Dangerous game, Harvey.”

He pushed off the wall with ease, closing the space between them in careful steps. “You’ve always been the kind of trouble worth betting on.”

“Persistent,” she said, voice dry and steady. She didn’t move closer, didn’t blink. “Always.”

“Only when I’m losing sleep over someone.”

The corner of his mouth curved—not the sharp grin he wore in the courtroom, but something slower, deliberate, like a poker player daring her to call his bluff, daring her to read the unspoken between his words. He wanted her to ask. He wanted her to chase the meaning.

She didn’t.

“I admit,” she murmured, lowering her chin, eyes narrowed on him, “I’ve always had a weakness for bold men with bad intentions.”

Harvey chuckled, low and controlled—a sound that barely stirred the night, yet lingered like smoke. “Good. I never play by the rules anyway.”

He tilted his head, letting the silence stretch between them, heavy and electric, before the corner of his lips lifted in a slow promise.

She was studying him like a contract —every line, every hidden clause revealed in the set of his shoulders and the polish of his expression.

For a heartbeat, a fragile spark of hope flickered—had he missed her? Her chest lifted just slightly, a foolish, weightless moment. Then the weight of reality settled like a stone, pressing into her ribs, reminding her he always had other plans, and she was never the center of them.

“You’re not just here for me.” she said, tilting her chin, reading him like an open brief she wasn’t meant to hold.

She remembered the man she once trusted, the one who had made her feel safe, and now she wasn’t sure she knew him at all.

For the first time, his gaze flicked away. He turned toward the street, profile sharp beneath the streetlight, hands slipping deeper into his pockets as if the evening could swallow him whole.

“You’re right,” he said finally, quiet and unflinching. “I’m not.”

The honesty in his tone unsettled her more than any lie would have. She stepped closer, boots scuffing lightly against the pavement.

“Then why are you here?”

Even he didn’t fully know why he was here—concern, habit, or maybe something deeper he refused to name, even to himself.

He glanced at her, and for a fraction of a second, the world narrowed to the curve of her jaw, the sharp intelligence in her eyes. Fear tightened his chest—fear for her, fear of losing her again. The love he thought he had buried, the respect he never stopped feeling, all surged beneath the surface.

Then he met her eyes, steadying himself. “Let’s just say I’m in the neighborhood before things start burning.”

Her frown deepened, the air tightening around her ribs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know how this city works.” His shoulders shifted in a faint shrug, as if the answer was obvious. “Pressure builds. Someone cracks. Just… don’t let it be you.”

“Are you warning me?”

His smile returned, fleeting and razor-edged—there and gone like a knife glinting under the moonlight. “I’m giving you a head start.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

“You’re standing on a fault line and pretending it’s solid ground.”

The words hit her harder than expected, pulling air from her lungs. She stepped closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, low and steady beneath the warm evening.

“If you know something—”

“Some moves only work if you don’t see them coming.”

That made her pause.

He slipped a hand inside his coat, slow and deliberate, then pulled out a small folded note. With a flick of his wrist, he extended it. Their fingers brushed briefly, sparking something sharp in the air neither acknowledged.

He tilted his head slightly. “But I’m guessing you will.”

He didn’t finish the thought aloud—didn’t need to. She heard it anyway, sharp and unspoken, like a clause hidden in plain sight.

She held the note in her hand, brow furrowed, unsure if she was ready to unfold it and face whatever message Harvey had left.

“So why tell me?” she pressed.

Harvey gave a small shrug. His eyes softened—not much, but enough to cut through the hard edges of the man everyone else thought they knew. “Not everyone in this city wants to watch you fall.”

He stopped for a second, his silence heavy.

He had no right to care, not anymore, but the thought of her in danger made his stomach twist, made him consider choices he had promised himself he’d never make again.

“You’ve always been smarter than the firm lets you be,” he said quietly. “Hardman’s loyalty has a price. You’ll pay it — if the numbers work in his favor.”

She stiffened. Her hand twitched at her side, nails digging briefly into her palm as if to ground herself.

She was a corporate attorney at Hardman & Co., a rising star who had clawed her way to managing partner. Sharp, ambitious, always measured. She had learned long ago that Hardman rewarded ambition—but never loyalty. Tonight, that lesson pressed against her chest, sharper than any deal or deadline.

“A threat?”

“A compliment,” Harvey replied, the words sliding off his tongue smooth as silk. “You’re worth watching.”

A beat.

“Meet me at Capelle’s tonight. 9 PM. Don’t be late. Wear something memorable.”

Before she could respond, he was already turning toward the sidewalk. His stride was unhurried, measured—a man who never looked back. He left her with a note and a storm in her mind: deals, alliances, betrayals she hadn’t even been told about.

Her pulse stayed steady. Her thoughts didn’t.

Why Capelle’s? Why tonight? Why a note, left deliberately in her hand, folded like a challenge? The questions gnawed at her, twisting tighter with every second. Was it a signal—an instruction, a test, or something darker?

Something waited there, and she couldn’t tell if it would protect her or destroy her.

But the truth was Harvey hadn’t come for Hardman. He’d come to make sure she didn’t go down with him.

Her grip tightened on the paper. Hardman. She knew he wasn’t a man to trust—his charming smile in the boardroom, his effortless compliments, all calculated. She counted every gesture, weighed every syllable before it escaped, knowing even a small misstep could be used against her.

Her stomach twisted. If Harvey was lying, then she was letting herself spiral over nothing. If he wasn’t—if Hardman was already cashing in the debt he’d never named—then every step she took inside that firm was already on borrowed time.

She drew a breath, steadied her hand, and unfolded the note:

BlueHarbor – 4722

Y/n shut the door and let the note slip onto the counter. Harvey’s handwriting stared up at her like a verdict.

The city hummed beyond her window—steady, indifferent—while inside, her thoughts raged. She stood motionless, breath tight, as if moving too soon might tip the balance of the evening. Something was coming. She knew it.

Her apartment was orderly, almost clinical—a shrine to control. Tonight, that control would have to be her weapon.

Sliding her chair to the terminal, she let her fingers hover over the keyboard. BlueHarbor. She typed it slowly, deliberately, like speaking the name aloud might summon the truth. The search results blinked, then offered a single, nondescript folder.

Her pulse spiked. One folder. That had to be it. She clicked it. A prompt appeared:

Enter Code.

4729

Her fingers trembled for a heartbeat before pressing Enter. The screen flickered. The folder opened. Files spilled across the monitor: transfers funneled through shell accounts, reimbursements padded with vague justifications, expenses inflated beyond reason.

Her spine stiffened. This wasn’t noise. This was theft.

She’d seen this pattern before, back when Hardman had been a name partner at Pearson Darby. Subtle misdirections, carefully curated façades, tiny anomalies that grew teeth over time. The parallels were unmistakable, and chilling.

She leaned back, jaw tight, eyes narrowing as the pieces clicked into place. Harvey hadn’t been warning her about a distant storm—he’d been signaling that the ground was already cracking beneath Hardman’s hands.

A quiet, bitter laugh escaped her lips. Of course. Hardman. The calculated warmth, the guiding tone, the mentor act—it was nothing but a mask, it had all been camouflage, just like before, when Jessica had been forced to clean up his mess.

And for a moment—God, for longer than a moment—she’d let herself believe it. How could she have been so blind?

Her fingers hovered over the trackpad before clicking. She downloaded the statements, stashed them in an encrypted folder, backed them up. Insurance. Proof. Her grip lingered, the edges biting into her palm. She knew she’d use it.

Her gaze drifted back to the note. Harvey’s voice echoed in her mind:

“Meet me at Capelle’s at 9 PM. Don’t be late. Wear something memorable.”

Not a request. A summons. He knew Hardman was already moving the pieces. He knew the theft was in motion.

Her jaw clenched. The meeting wasn’t just a warning. It was the fault line opening beneath her.

She snapped the laptop shut and drew in a steady breath. She wasn’t going to Capelle’s as prey. She would go armed—with knowledge, with proof, with eyes wide open.

If Hardman thought she was another number on his ledger, he was about to learn she was the variable he couldn’t control.

*

In the alley beside the restaurant, she stopped. Not to catch her breath — just to remember how to walk without armor. The dress hugged her like a memory, the same midnight-blue silk she’d worn that night they almost laughed, almost let each other in. Familiar lines, now edged with intent, impossible to ignore.

The restaurant was all sharp lines and soft lighting — expensive, intimate, and cold in a curated way. Everything about it screamed control.

Harvey’s kind of place.

She stepped through the doors, coat folded neatly over her arm, posture careful but unyielding.

The hostess didn’t ask her name. Just smiled — rehearsed, precise — and led her through the quiet hum of crystal and cutlery to a corner booth tucked beneath a sculptural chandelier. Private, but not hidden.

Harvey was already seated. Tie loosened, phone tucked away, wine poured. He rose as she approached, gaze steady — not smug, not dramatic. Just present.

His gaze caught the dress first — and for a heartbeat, he was back in that other night, the one that almost belonged to them. Almost..

“You came,” he said, voice low and even. Though a small pulse of something unbidden ran through him.

She didn’t miss a step, just slid into the seat across from him, spine straight, voice cool.

From her seat, the main dining room shimmered in the tall mirrored wall — a perfect vantage point, unnoticed.

“Almost didn’t.”

She eased into the seat, eyes scanning. Chandeliers fractured light across polished tables, shadows pooling in every corner. Nothing out of place — yet everything felt like a warning.

A flicker crossed his face — not quite a smile, more like recognition. For a heartbeat, he simply looked, wanting to take her all in without letting it show.

Harvey’s voice came first, quiet, hesitant.

“You look beauti—”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

Her words fell over his, precise, unflinching.

The sentence left his compliment suspended, unfinished. For a moment, they simply held each other’s eyes — his warmth, her armor, perfectly opposed.

Her words dug into him, twisting something inside. He felt small, stupid. He cared—maybe more than he should. Love had always been a word too heavy for him, a step too far. Yet without her, everything felt empty, and he ached to fix it, even if he didn’t know how, but this was a start.

He nodded once, slowly. “I didn’t invite to scare you.”

“No?” Her eyebrow lifted, a faint tilt of her head. “Then… why dinner, Harvey? Just to see me? And… why help me at all? We’re barely even acquaintances anymore.”

Harvey exhaled slowly. “Maybe I just wanted to remember what it was like… before it all went sideways.”

Cemre didn’t respond. She said nothing, letting the quiet stretch between them

He leaned back slightly, eyes still on her. Softer now.

The server arrived with menus neither of them looked at. She ordered something at random. He let her speak first. It felt too normal. Like muscle memory.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Y/n.” he said. “I did that months ago… now I’m just trying to make it right.”

Harvey reached across the table then — not to grab, not to control. Just a hand resting near hers, close enough to feel the heat.

She studied him for a long moment, letting his words settle. She could feel the weight of his regret, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself to wonder if he truly meant it.

“You should know… this isn’t a game to me.” He leaned closer. “And if you ever stop running… just for a moment… you’ll see I’ve never stopped watching.”

Her fingers twitched. But she didn’t move.

Then he smiled. Not the charming one. The real one — the one she used to trust.

[brscmre]

🤍 hi! i write stories and love sharing them with anyone who stops by.

── .✦ Shadow and Bone

surrender in silence kaz brekker x reader on a quiet birthday night, and in the days that follow, he finally lets his guard down, and everything unspoken between them surfaces in a single, fragile moment.

there she is kaz brekker x reader he hates what he feels but can't stop wanting her. her laughter, her light, everything he thinks he doesn't deserve.

the sea between us kaz brekker x reader x nikolai lantsov three lives twisted by fate, torn between loyalty and love, caught in a relentless storm where every choice could mean salvation or destruction.

── .✦ Suits

faultline harvey specter x reader. y/n is hardman’s right hand, but loyalties are shifting. harvey specter, a man from her past, shows up with a note, a dinner, and a chance to make things right…if the past stays buried long enough to try again.

i also edit on tiktok ⋆.˚

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[brscmre]

surrender in silence

summary: kaz brekker has built his life behind walls and gloves, but she’s always waited — patient, steady, the sea queen who moves like tides. on a quiet birthday night, and in the days that follow, he finally lets his guard down, and everything unspoken between them surfaces in a single, fragile moment.

The Slat had never felt this warm.

Not warm like sunlight, or firelight. Warm like something quiet blooming between the cracks of rotting floorboards. Warm like the sound of laughter in a place where even whispers felt too loud. Warm like someone trying — not just to survive — but to care.

The creaking stairs still groaned beneath every step. The walls still peeled like old secrets. That familiar scent of damp wood, ink, and something burnt still clung to the air. And yet… something had shifted.

Because today was Y/N’s birthday.

And for once, the Crows weren’t planning a heist, covering up a body, or plotting revenge. They were doing something far rarer, far more dangerous: trying to make someone feel loved.

Jesper ruined the surprise, of course.

He’d tried to act casual all morning, but the sparkle in his eyes betrayed him.

“You didn’t see anything in the living room, right?” he asked, following her down the stairs like a puppy. Hands jammed in his coat pockets. A grin too bright to be innocent.

She turned to glance at him, one brow raised, her lips curling into a soft, amused smile. She never expected the Crows to care like this. Not really.

“No… should I have?”

Jesper froze. “No! I mean—yes. I mean—don’t.”

Then he sprang into action.

With all the grace of a dramatist denied his stage, he darted in front of her and threw himself bodily across the common room doorway, arms stretched out like a human barricade. His coat brushed against her arm like a sudden jolt.

“You’re officially banned from entering until further notice,” he declared, voice grave but eyes dancing. “Boss’s orders.”

She crossed her arms and leaned slightly to one side, studying him like a puzzle she’d already solved. “And since when do I follow orders?”

Jesper leaned in, his voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Since I’ll cry if you ruin this.”

That earned him a soft, surprised laugh — the kind that tugged at the corners of her mouth before she could stop it.

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll pretend I didn’t see your very subtle panic.”

She turned to head back upstairs, but paused halfway. Glanced over her shoulder with a quiet smile. Maybe, just maybe, she belonged here too.

“I hope it’s not just stale bread and a knife pretending to be a candle.”

Jesper flashed a grin. “Please. You think I’d let your birthday be anything less than legendary?”

She didn’t reply. But her smile stayed — a little longer, a little warmer. The kind of smile that held something unspoken.

*

An hour later, the Slat seemed to hold its breath. The door creaked open, and she froze, hand lightly resting on the knob, heart tightening in quiet anticipation.

She hadn’t expected much — maybe a shout of ‘Surprise!’, a laugh, some clumsy decorations, or bread wrapped in an old cloth. After all, this was the Slat. This was the Crows.

But instead, the room held a warm, humming silence, as if something sacred had settled here.

She stepped inside and stopped.

The space had softened. Lanterns hung low, spilling golden light. Seashells were scattered like quiet tokens. Bottles of colored glass caught the glow, scattering tiny reflections over blue cloth draped along the walls.

Someone — Wylan, of course — had made it look like the ocean itself had come to visit, wrapping its arms around this place of shadows and secrets, deciding, for once, to stay.

In the center stood a long table, set with mismatched plates and chipped cups, a clumsy feast of Ketterdam’s finest street food and in the middle of it all: a cake. It leaned slightly to the left, but no one cared.

Her breath hitched; she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding it.

They were all there.

Jesper grinned, arms spread like a magician unveiling a trick. He winked. See? Told you I could keep a secret. Wylan fussed over a delicate music box, cheeks flushed with nerves. Inej watched quietly from the shadows, a rare, soft smile touching her lips.

And then—

Kaz.

He stood slightly apart from the others. Gloved hands behind his back, eyes on her — not watching, exactly, but truly seeing.

The scowl was gone in its place, something quieter. Something that flickered in the space between affection and restraint.

She didn’t knew what to say.

Inej stepped forward, calm and steady as ever. “You deserve more than the Barrel can offer, but this—this is a start.”

She looked at each of them — Jesper, Inej, Wylan — and Kaz.

She smiled, soft and a little shaky. “Thank you… for this. For seeing me.”

Jesper cleared his throat, trying to mask the lump in his throat with a crooked smile. He ducked his head, scratching at the back of his neck. “You’re really gonna make me tear up, you know that?”

Then, with a flourish that only Jesper could manage, he tossed her a small, carefully wrapped box. She caught it midair, eyes sparkling, and he leaned back a step, watching her with a mixture of pride and mock embarrassment. “Go on, open my first,” he urged, voice light but eyes warm.

She smirked, holding the box close. “Afraid someone else’s is better?”

“Terrified.”

Inside was a holster — sleek leather dyed the color of storm-tossed seas, catching the light with a faint shimmer. Tucked inside was a folded note, inked with Jesper’s crooked handwriting: In case you ever want to carry something that doesn’t end the world. Or does. Either way, do it in style.

She traced the leather with her fingertips, feeling the smooth grain, the care hidden in its stitching. The smile that tugged at her lips was soft, unguarded. “I’ll keep it close,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Jesper… really.”

Jesper’s grin softened into something smaller, steadier. “You’re family,” he said simply. “Of course.”

Wylan’s gift was a tiny glass wave, frozen forever mid-curl, never crashing, delicate and endless. When the light hit it just so, a miniature ship appeared, sailing within the glassy swell.

“So you can carry the sea wherever you go,” Wylan said quietly, cheeks flushed.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she said, voice barely more than a murmur. “Always.”

Inej stepped forward, offering a thin scroll bound with deep blue thread.

“It’s not much,” she said, “but it’s a map I made — all the islands we talked about, and some I think you’d love.”

She carefully unfurled the scroll. The islands were marked with swirling wind lines, anchors, and even tiny sea monsters curled at the edges. A gentle smile lifted her lips — soft, real, unforced.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Looks like I’ll have to steal a ship.”

“I’ll help you captain it,” Inej promised.

Then Kaz stepped forward.

No gift in hand. No box wrapped in ribbon. Nothing visible but his voice, low and careful, as if each word had to navigate a maze before reaching her.

His breath left him slow, hesitant, almost like he feared speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile balance of this moment.“You’ve managed to make this place feel like home. And that’s more impossible than raising the tide.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp, electric tug she couldn’t ignore. “Worth the trouble, then?

A corner of his mouth twitched—barely a smile, but enough to betray the walls he’d spent years constructing. “Maybe.”

Silence stretched across the table, heavy but not uncomfortable. Jesper opened his mouth to break it with a joke, caught Kaz’s expression, and wisely shut it again.

She let her smile soften, fragile and uncertain, holding the quiet between them like a prayer. She said nothing—just let the space linger.

Kaz reached into his coat and pulled out a leather-bound notebook, setting it before her with a deliberate slowness.

“I found it in a bookshop by the harbor,” he said, gaze fixed just past her shoulder, as if the world beyond the Slat could lend courage to his words. “Old sea charts inside. Some blank pages in the back.”

She opened it carefully. The yellowed pages were traced with faded coastlines, compass roses, scribbled notes in Kerch and Ravkan. Toward the end, a dozen empty pages waited—empty, patient, full of promise.

“I thought… you might want to make your own map,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, trembling just a fraction with the honesty he could not fully voice. “Wherever you go next.”

She studied him, tracing the rigid line of his jaw, the shadowed corners of his eyes, the way he held himself like a fortress that might crumble at the gentlest touch. Her chest ached with longing, with relief, with a silent gratitude that he had, quietly, let something slip.

“I’ll write your name on the first island I find,” she said, deliberate, steady—an anchor cast across the distance he had so carefully kept.

His eyes darkened, and for the briefest fraction of a heartbeat, a tenderness flickered there. “Make sure it’s somewhere worth returning to,” he murmured, each word a warning, a plea, a hope he could not fully voice.

“I always find my way back,” she said, soft but unyielding. “Especially to home.”

He swallowed, the weight of her words pressing at the walls around his heart. He wanted to say more, to pull her close, to tell her she was more than home—but the words lodged heavy, impossible. So he nodded instead, letting the silence speak for him.

In that quiet, everything hung suspended: longing, fear, hope, and the ache of knowing the hardest journeys were not across oceans, but back to one another.

Jesper raised his glass, eyes bright. “To our friend, our queen, who somehow makes all the impossible things feel… possible.”

She lifted her glass, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. The others followed, their own glasses raised with quiet reverence.

For a heartbeat, she let herself imagine home as more than walls and maps—it was this: laughter, shared glances, the steadfast presence of people who refused to let her go.

She leaned back, taking them in—Inej’s quiet joy, Wylan’s delicate pride, Jesper’s mischievous warmth.

And Kaz.

Sitting beside her, his coat brushing her arm, close enough to make her feel like maybe she wasn’t a myth, like maybe she truly belonged.

Her eyes found his, lingering just long enough to catch the unspoken weight between them—a question, an answer, and a tremor of something neither dared voice.

But in that silence, everything was said—the ache of distance, the pull of home, the unspoken promise neither wanted to release. She let her hand hover near his, not quite touching, just close enough to feel the warmth, the presence, the tether between them.

Around them, laughter and voices receded into a gentle blur. For a single heartbeat, the world shrank until it was only the two of them, suspended in the quiet ache of belonging, hope, and home.

*

The last echoes of laughter had faded, leaving only two at the table.

Kaz sat beside her, not as the Bastard of the Barrel, not as the ghost the streets feared, but simply as himself — gloved hands rested over his cane, posture rigid, yet his silence was unusually gentle. Tonight, it wasn’t a barrier. It felt like a pause between waves, a breath the sea took before returning to shore.

His silence tonight wasn’t cold.

It was warm. It hummed like low tide, like the hush of a world holding its breath.

She didn’t speak. She just sat, her body turned ever so slightly toward him, as if pulled by some unseen current. They’d shared a hundred silences before — but not like this.

This one felt sacred. Like if either of them spoke too loud, they’d shatter something fragile between them.

Her fingers rested on the notebook’s worn leather. A gentle tap broke the silence—like the first drop of rain.

“It’s not just maps, is it?”

Kaz didn’t answer right away. His eyes were fixed ahead — not on her, not on anything — just holding still, weighing the risk of speaking.

Then finally: “Turn to page sixteen.”

She did. Slowly.

The paper yielded beneath her touch like old breath. Her fingers skimmed the edges until they stopped — mid-page, between a jagged coastline and a hand-drawn compass.

A single line curved across the parchment, stitched in his handwriting.

“If the sea ever leaves, I’ll know it was following the moon. And I’ll hold onto hope—that it never changes its mind.”

She stilled.

She didn’t read it twice — she didn’t have to.

The words settled into her like salt in an old wound, like warmth seeping into frostbitten skin. The metaphor was simple. Quiet. But in his hand — with his voice behind it — it felt like a tremor beneath the surface.

She wondered, suddenly, how long he’d carried this sentence inside him — and how many times he’d stopped himself from offering it. The thought pressed against her ribs like the echo of something missed, something almost lost.

She wasn’t prepared for it.

Kaz Brekker didn’t do poetry.

But this? This was something else.

She closed the notebook slowly, hands trembling just enough to betray her.

Kaz still hadn’t looked at her — not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t yet know how to meet the weight in her eyes without drowning.

“I thought maybe…” he said, voice quieter than she’d ever heard it, “the metaphor would land better on paper.”

It did.

Too well.

She swallowed down the knot in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered. Not for the notebook. For the meaning. For the glimpse beneath the ice.

He nodded. But his eyes — they lingered now, watching her the way someone watches the sea before daring to step in.

“Do you really believe it?” she asked softly.

“I don’t believe in poetry,” he muttered.

“But?” Her voice was barely a breath.

Kaz’s jaw clenched — a subtle twitch betraying the tension he usually kept locked away.

A thousand things passed between them in the silence that followed. Every stolen glance, every unsaid truth, every moment they’d stood too close and pretended not to notice.

“But I believe it’s the only way I’d ever lose you.”

Silence.

Not empty, but full — bursting with everything they didn’t know how to say.

She didn’t touch him. Didn’t try to. But she shifted a little closer, her voice softer than any tide.

“You won’t lose me, Kaz.”

He exhaled slowly, breath controlled, quiet — but something cracked beneath the surface, soft and subtle, like a mirror splintering under weight.

Then — without a word — he reached into the folds of his coat.

Her breath hitched.

She knew this motion too well. Kaz Brekker reaching for a knife, a note, a bribe, a threat — always with purpose, always with precision. There was never hesitation in his hands, only intent.

But now…

His movements were different. Slower. Fragile. Careful, not calculated. Reverent, almost trembling. Like whatever he held wasn’t just important, but sacred. Like he feared his hands weren’t worthy of it.

Her eyes followed the motion — not with suspicion, but with awe that clawed at her chest, as if she were witnessing something holy unfold.

And then she saw it, not the object, but the truth behind his posture:

He was nervous.

Not afraid of her — but of what this moment meant. Of what it would say once it crossed the space between them.

The item he withdrew was small, resting like something sacred in his gloved palm. His fingers remained curled around it, shielding it from the light — as though baring it too soon might strip away its meaning. As though the gift wasn’t just the thing itself, but the tenderness of giving.

He didn’t set it down. Didn’t slide it across the table like a bribe or a strategy — no, this wasn’t that kind of offering.

Instead, he leaned closer.

Only slightly — but enough.

Enough for her to feel the shift in gravity. Enough for the air between them to grow still, expectant. Enough for the space to bloom with something alive, fragile, and infinite.

And then — his hand reached for hers.

Leather against skin. A touch so soft it might have been imagined, if not for the way her pulse caught beneath it.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because in that fraction of a heartbeat, the world stood still. Her palm opened not out of instinct, but invitation.

The pendant fell into her palm like snowfall — quiet, silver, impossibly light. But it settled like a truth. Like something that had waited too long to be said aloud.

A crescent moon — sharp and soft all at once, like him. Like her.

The moon follows the sea, she thought. But only when it’s brave enough to rise.

Kaz didn’t speak. But his fingers lingered. Just long enough. Just enough to let her know: this wasn’t a mistake. This was a choice.

Her breath trembled.

He pulled away like a ghost leaving warmth behind, but the impression remained, carved into her pulse, her chest, her very bones.

She didn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.

Because this — this nearness, this hush — was something she’d only ever let herself imagine in the quietest corners of longing, where hope was fragile and hidden.

And yet, it was real.

And when he pulled away, the weight of it — of everything — remained.

It hummed softly in the pause between heartbeats, the silence heavy with what had just passed.

She looked down, slowly uncurling her fingers.

There it was.

A pendant — small, silver, and crescent-shaped. A sliver of moonlight made solid, delicate and sharp, quiet in its beauty.

Her breath shivered at the edges.

Kaz had always believed that giving meant losing. That anything taken from his hands would be used against him. But this — this wasn’t surrender. It was a choice. Not to unarm himself, but to let her see the hands beneath the armor.

Her voice broke the silence, quiet and aching.

“I thought you gave me my gift already.”

“I did.”

Her eyes flicked back to the new one. The pendant glinted faintly in the low light, casting a pale, trembling shimmer across the wood.

“And this?”

Kaz stilled. For a moment, she wondered if he regretted it. If the space between them would close again, folding back into distance.

But then — he looked up.

Not guarded. Not distant.

Just Kaz — laid bare, stripped of the usual shadows, human in a way that made her chest ache.

“This… is different.”

He held her gaze, and the words came low and slow — like they’d been pressed into him for years, waiting for release.

“I found it after I met you,” he said quietly. “I kept it without really knowing why. Maybe because it felt like a lifeline I couldn’t bear to untangle.”

He looked away — only for a breath — and when he spoke again, the edge of his voice cracked like ice under pressure.

“I told myself it was out of spite. That hope was dangerous. That softness was a weakness I couldn’t afford.”

Another breath. Unsteady now.

“But time passed. And I watched you.”

He didn’t smile. But the memory seeped warmth, melting something he’d long thought untouchable.

“You laughed. You fought. You stayed.”

His voice dropped lower, rumbling into the hollow spaces of himself.

“And I understood.”

He paused — and for once, the silence wasn’t a shield but an unspoken truth.

“You were the reason I couldn’t let it go. Even before I had the words for it.”

His fingers shifted slightly on the cane, a tremor barely there — like a confession.

“You remind me… that some things are worth keeping.”

She reached up and touched the pendant where it rested near her heart, fingers feather-light.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Not for the gift, but for what it cost you to give it.”

A pause — soft, full, aching in the spaces between them.

“You know,” she said quietly, “for someone who doesn’t do birthdays, you make them memorable.”

Kaz’s lips twitched. “I’m a fast learner.”

“And the moon pendant? Is that from the fast-learning syllabus too?”

A beat.

He looked at her — not guarded, but unreadable in a way that invited curiosity instead of fear.

Kaz’s voice was quiet. “Call it… an addendum.”

“You kept it all these years.” she said.

“I kept the memory. The trinket was just an anchor.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he answered, softer than she’d ever heard him speak, “I’d rather carry the sea than the anchor.”

I want to be the moon you follow… not the shore you leave.

Her chest tightened. She wanted to laugh, to breathe, to touch him — but the ache of it stole every word.

Maybe it was foolish. Maybe she’d walk away someday — and he wouldn’t stop her.

He knew her feelings, knew the way she stayed, even when it hurt. But he also knew how cruel it was — to love a man who couldn’t hand her softness without splinters. A man whose walls stayed high, even when his hands reached low.

And yet, here he was, letting the walls bend just enough for her to slip inside.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t holding the memory tighter than the person standing in front of him.

He looked down then — not in shame, but like her love was something too bright to meet head-on.

“I used to think letting someone in meant handing them a knife,” he said, voice like a wound stitched too tightly.

Her breath caught.

“And now?”

He met her eyes — all armor gone.

“Now I know it means offering a lighthouse. And hoping they leave the light on when you’re lost.”

She moved then — not to kiss him, not to speak. Just to reach for his hand again, her fingers brushing against the glove as if asking a silent question.

He didn’t answer with words.

But he didn’t pull away. And in that quiet, unguarded stillness, Kaz Brekker let everything he’d hidden — every fear, every longing — settle between them like whispered confession.

“You once told me hope was a luxury.” She folded her arms atop the chair back, leaning in. “Tonight you gave me hope wrapped in leather and ink.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. The smallest shadow of a breath caught in his chest. “I gave you proof. Proof you’ve changed this place—and me—more than I’d ever dare admit in daylight.”

The confession lay between them, fragile and brilliant, like glass balanced on the edge of breaking. She wondered if he felt the same vertigo she did, standing on the rim of something vast and unknowable, too dangerous to name.

She smiled softly, but the weight of the night was settling in her bones. She rose slowly, smoothing the folds of her dress with unsteady hands.

The words burned bitter on her tongue. Every syllable felt like retreat. She wanted him to stop her. To give her something stronger than reason.

Kaz didn’t move. His eyes held hers, unwavering in the candlelight — sharp, steady, searching. He looked at her as if memorizing her face before the tide carried her away.

Her breath caught. The space between them narrowed, shrinking from paces to inches, like gravity had made up its mind.

“I don’t want to be the one who leaves first,” she whispered — not a plea, but a truth laid bare.

Kaz’s gloved fingers twitched near the edge of the table, a gesture caught between reaching and restraint. Always on the verge. Always almost.

“You won’t,” he said, voice barely audible.

Then came the scrape of wood on wood — loud in the stillness, like thunder tearing through silence. Kaz pulled the chair beside her and sat, the movement slow, deliberate. His hands rested on the table: one near the notebook, the other near the pendant. Close enough to feel the ghost of warmth, close enough to ache. But still not touching.

For the first time in all the jagged history that led them here, they sat without armor, without roles — just two souls caught in the storm’s fragile eye, letting the world soften around them.

Outside, the rain tapped its steady rhythm on the windowpane — patient, unrelenting.

Inside, the last two candles burned low, flickering like stars at sea.

And the Sea Queen wrote her first line in a brand-new map — not in ink, but in memory:

Tonight, the tide turned home.

*

Long after Kaz had gone upstairs, after the candles burned low and the city fell into its nighttime hum, she stayed.

The notebook waited in front of her, closed, heavy with silence. The room felt sacred, as if even the air remembered what had passed between them.

Then she saw… his gloves. Black, worn at the edges, creased from years of careful, cautious hands. A second skin he never shed, a line drawn between him and the world. Until now, when he had left them behind, unguarded and deliberate, as if offering her a piece of himself without a word.

She hadn’t noticed him place them there. Not in the blur of warmth, not in the way he had looked at her like she was the only thing in the room that mattered.

Her fingers hovered above the gloves, trembling, not touching, feeling the quiet gravity of his absence. Every crease, every fold spoke of him — of the boy who had built walls too high to climb, and yet had reached across the space between them, silently, impossibly.

He hadn’t spoken, and he didn’t need to. In leaving them, he had given her something no one else ever had:

Him.

No mask. No armor. Only the pulse of a man who had chosen to let someone in, fragile and unsteady, yet unflinching.

And that, she realized, was a rarer gift than anything wrapped in ribbon.

She slowly opened the notebook, her fingers brushing the page he had marked, as if it might burn her hand with the truth of him:

“If the sea ever leaves, I’ll know it was following the moon. And I’ll hold onto hope—that it never changes its mind.”

She read it again, and again; it wasn’t just poetic, it wasn’t just beautiful — it was true, a compass inked in his quiet way, a tide pulled not by gravity but by her.

A confession from a man who rarely allowed softness, who rarely trusted faith — and yet, here he had offered both. He had trusted her with himself, even knowing that if she left, it would shatter him. And still, he had let her hold it.

Her breath stilled, caught between awe and ache. To be loved by someone who had never allowed himself to love was to feel the edges of the impossible.

Her hand moved before she could stop it, reaching for Wylan’s pen, ink still fresh.

The book wasn’t full; blank pages waited. She turned to the next one — page seventeen — and wrote.

*

It was late when he read it.

The Slat was quiet. The windows fogged with cold. Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard groaned — a lone sound in the city’s hush, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Kaz told himself he was only checking the notebook to see if she’d used it. Nothing more. A glance. A fleeting thought. A heartbeat he couldn’t control.

But when he flipped past maps and scribbled coastlines, and found her handwriting on a blank page — clean, deliberate, undeniably hers — something hit him in the chest so hard it stole his breath.

“The moon doesn’t choose the tide.

But the sea comes anyway.”

His grip tightened. He had to remind himself to let go.

It was poetry. Something she’d tease herself about in daylight — a laugh, a shake of the head, a light she hid from the world.

But he knew better. Knew her better.

This wasn’t metaphor. This was a confession.

“Even when it hurts.

Even when it’s pulled too far.

Even when it wants to drown the moon for not being able to touch it.”

The pause in his breath was sharp and intimate, like an echo of her voice in the hollow of his chest. It wasn’t just about him — it was about her. About what he’d done to her. What he was still doing.

Letting her crash against him like waves on stone. Letting her come close. But never close enough.

“I don’t follow you because you ask.

I follow you because I always have.”

He closed the notebook too quickly. Pushed it away as though the air itself might suffocate him.

He paced. Once. Twice. Pressed palms to the desk. Gloves still on, though heat roared beneath them, beneath the leather.

She followed him.

She chose him.

And he had nothing to give her. Not warmth. Not gentleness. Not the softness someone like her deserved.

And still — she wrote this.

Like it was simple.

Like it was certain.

Like she would do it again.

He sank into the chair. Slowly. Removed one glove. Then the other. And turned the page.

The candle flickered beside him, uncertain. His hand trembled as it touched the paper again — not fear. Not shame. Something sharper, deeper, almost unbearable. Hope.

He had lived for so long without it, and now it flooded him, like saltwater rising fast, stinging and sweet all at once.

Kaz Brekker didn’t drown.

But tonight, her words pulled him under.

And he let them.

*

Two days passed.

She never mentioned the notebook.

She didn’t ask if he’d read it. Didn’t linger too long in the room. Didn’t watch him the way she used to.

She just waited — like the sea, patient and endless, hiding the storm beneath its calm.

Kaz noticed. Of course he did.

She moved differently around him now. Not cold. Not cautious. Just quiet. Like someone who had thrown a match into the dark and was still waiting to see what it set fire to.

But there was no fire. Only silence. Only him.

And he–

He didn’t write back. Not because he hadn’t tried. He opened the notebook — in his room, in the office, in the Slat long after everyone else had gone — picked up the pen, let it rest in his hand. And every time, it felt impossibly heavy, as if the words themselves might shatter him.

She had given him her truth and he couldn’t return even a fraction. Because some things can’t be written, can’t be softened or shaped into lines. Some things are meant to be lived. Felt. Proven. And that’s what terrified him most.

He hovered over the page, hand trembling, mind racing. Every line she had written echoed inside him, a tide pulling him under, reminding him how much he wanted to hold her close and how little he knew how. He wanted to answer, to trace the lines of her words with his own, but the truth he carried was too raw, too real.

She had spoken in the language of the sea — tides, pull, patience. He, who had only ever known how to drown, didn’t know how to meet her tide without letting himself break.

Not yet.

*

It was past midnight when he knocked.

Once. Quiet. Certain.

He didn’t know what he expected. Silence, maybe. Sleep-heavy footsteps. Her voice, groggy with exhaustion, telling him to come back in the morning — to be decent, to go haunt someone else’s door.

But instead—

The latch clicked almost immediately.

She opened the door just a sliver.

Enough for a shard of moonlight to spill across her face — hair unbound, eyes still glazed with sleep. She looked like a memory. Soft. Unarmored. Real.

“Kaz?” she asked, voice low, warm, barely more than breath. “Is something wrong?”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped past her, crossing the threshold without permission. He moved slowly, deliberately — each step uneven, like the ground wasn’t quite solid beneath him. Not pacing. Not prowling.

Just a man forcing his way forward without armor.

He didn’t go far. Just far enough to be in the room, far enough to feel the air shift between them. Then he stopped, breath steady but shallow, like even standing there cost him something. Stillness settled in his shoulders — not peace, not calm.

Surrender.

She closed the door slowly, eyes following him. No questions. No demands. Just waiting.

That was the thing about her. She didn’t prod at the cracks. She simply stood near enough for the stone to feel it.

His breath came shallow. It hurt to start.

“I read it,” he said, finally, voice hoarse, each word like dragging a knife through old wounds.

She didn’t ask what he meant, she didn’t need to. She only nodded, a small tilt of her chin — acknowledging something she had already buried.

Kaz swallowed. Jaw tight.

“I didn’t write back. Not because I didn’t want to. Not because I didn’t try.”

He looked at her then, really looked.

“But because I realized… there’s no page that could hold it.”

She stood perfectly still. That made it easier, somehow. Or harder.

Kaz swallowed, his gaze finding hers — not glancing, not measuring, but truly looking. The way he never allowed himself to.

“I’ve built myself like a city — walls and locks and every gate shut. I’ve survived by never letting anyone in. I believed I had to be alone. That it was the only way to survive.”

A bitter smile touched his lips. It didn’t stay long.

“But you…” Breath uneven, voice fragile and dangerous at once. “You just stood at the gate. Not breaking it down. Not demanding the key. Just… waiting.”

“And I’ve never hated someone more for making me want to open the door.”

Her breath caught, sharp as a hook. But she didn’t move.

Kaz stepped forward. Bare-handed. No armor. No weapons. Just the truth he had always denied.

“I’ve been drowning in you since the beginning,” he said. “ You just didn’t notice — because you are the sea.”

She blinked, just once. That was all.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he continued, quieter now. “I don’t know how to touch without shaking. Or speak without turning everything into a weapon.”

Another step. Slow. Careful. As if approaching something holy.

“I don’t know if I can be what you deserve. If I can give more than fragments, more than what’s left after the war inside me eases for the day.”

Another step.

“But I know I want to try. For you.”

Her breath faltered again. In the dim light, her eyes shone — not yet with tears, but with the promise of something vast, untamed, and unshaken beneath the surface.

“I don’t want to be the moon anymore,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Tired of watching from a distance. Tired of pulling at tides I can never reach.”

A beat.

“I want you.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she closed the space between them, moving as quietly as the sea sliding over the shore.

No hands touched. No lips met.

She leaned her forehead to his, breaths mingling in the dark.

“I’ve always been yours,” she murmured.

Her voice was so soft he almost missed it.

Something broke in him then — not with violence, but with the fragile, unstoppable crack of ice thawing.

For the first time in years — perhaps in his entire life — Kaz Brekker let someone in.

No gloves.

No mask.

No escape plan.

Just her.

The girl who had waited outside his locked gates like she had always belonged there.

The sea that didn’t beg him to swim — only promised not to let him drown if he stepped closer.

He didn’t kiss her that night. Maybe not for a long while yet. But when he wrapped his arms around her, it wasn’t a move, or a plan, or armor. It was simply him, finally there.

And the boy who had once clawed his way out of a grave in Ketterdam — who had built himself from vengeance and blood and silence — gave himself to something else entirely.

To her.

And nothing — nothing — could ever unwrite it.

thank you so much for taking the time to read! 💕 if you enjoyed it, leaving a comment or reblog would mean the world. it’s the biggest way you can support me and keeps me motivated!

[brscmre]

*

jennifer willoughby, the sun is still a part of me

[brscmre]

[A white fortune cookie paper with blue text. Front: The best times of your life have not yet been lived. Lucky Numbers 41, 36, 22, 51, 39, 34 Back: August, Chinese text 八 (bā) 月 (yuè)]

[brscmre]

maybe growing up is just becoming who you were at 14 again but learning how to love her this time

[brscmre]

[brscmre]

the sea between us

summary: the sea queen, a girl who commands the oceans but still searches for where she truly belongs. kaz brekker — the ruthless bastard of the barrel. nikolai lantsov — the charming prince, weary from war yet unbroken. three lives twisted by fate, torn between loyalty and love, caught in a relentless storm where every choice could mean salvation—or destruction.

The fight was already brewing in the cramped alley of Novyi Zem when she stepped out of the shadows beside Kaz Brekker. The stones were slick, treacherous underfoot, the air thick with smoke and the sharp tang of adrenaline.

Jesper lounged against the wall, winking at her as he cocked both revolvers with theatrical flair, while Wylan fidgeted with a small, vicious explosive in his pocket, cheeks flushed.

She caught the edge of Jesper’s grin and felt a flicker of warmth despite the storm around them. Somehow, amidst the chaos, they were a strange kind of family.

She was an odd fit for the Crows. Too bright, too forgiving, too filled with gentle wrath for the Barrel’s savage hunger. Yet somehow she fit: a queen of the sea among the king of knives, the girl made of shadows and rope, the boy who danced with bullets, and the one who made things bloom from fire.

Even now, beyond the alley’s stone ribs, she felt the harbor’s slow pulse, the water’s steady heartbeat syncing with her own, whispering in a voice only she could hear: Command me.

Across the alley stood two women and three men in worn keftas — Grisha, by the look of them — their fingers twitching with the promise of power.

And then, without warning, the fight cracked open like thunder.

Fists smashed into bone. Bullets screamed against brick. Y/n flicked her wrist — water surged forward, slicing like a wave-shaped blade — hurling a smuggler into the wall with a sickening crack.

Jesper’s delighted whoop joined the gunfire’s chorus. Wylan’s bomb exploded at the alley’s mouth, sending the second wave of thugs scattering like startled crows.

Through it all, Kaz’s eyes never left her — that old look in them, as if she was the salvation he’d never earn and the ruin he thought he deserved.

She felt oddly distant, like watching a memory through a window: real, but no longer hers to control.

She had tried. Saints, she’d waited. For him to put the cane down. To let the armor crack. To soften, even just for a moment.

But Kaz Brekker didn’t bend. He calcified. Hardened. Until even the good things bruised themselves against him.

“You keep waiting for something I already told you I don’t have,” he’d said. “That’s on you. If you’re hurt, it’s because you made the mistake of thinking I’d care.”

When the last man hit the ground, silence settled over the alley like a cold breath. Not peace — never peace — but the fragile hush that follows violence, when the world holds its breath, waiting to decide what it wants to become next.

The last echoes of the fight faded. Chill crept in, settling over broken bodies and breathless air.

Then — a barked order, sharp enough to split the stillness in two.

Soldiers spilled from the shadows, rifles raised but cautious. At their center strode a young man in a battered military coat, boots splattered with mud and something close to royal arrogance.

Y/n turned.

Amidst the chaos, his gaze cut through everything else, settling solely on her.

In that moment, something shifted in him. His pace faltered for the briefest heartbeat. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened just a fraction — a flicker of hesitation beneath the surface, as if by some ancient call, knowing that the story of Ravka was about to change forever.

Nikolai Lantsov.

“I didn’t know you were patriots,” he said, voice light with amusement — but something sharper lingered beneath.

Kaz’s lip curled in the barest smirk. “Well, if you die we don’t get paid.”

“The blade, did you find it?”

Y/n stepped forward, voice steady.

“Inej has it. She went after Alina and Mal.”

Nikolai’s gaze snapped to her, his surprise subtle but unmistakable.

He stepped forward, measured, the kind of precise grace that made every move count.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” His voice was light, playful — like he was enjoying this.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Or else your presence would have reached me sooner.” He smiled, a deliberate glint in his eyes. “Impossible to overlook.” He dipped into a flawless bow. “Nikolai Lantsov.”

So that was the prince.

He tilted his head, courtly and exact. “And I believe you’re the Sea Queen the rumors chase.”

Her lips twitched — not quite a smile. “I don’t recall being crowned,” she said, cool and steady.“But I suppose it sounds better than ‘the girl dragged into wars that aren’t hers.”

Nikolai chuckled softly — genuine, disarming. His eyes gleamed with something beyond amusement.

“Well,” he said, “we’ve all got our tragic titles. Mine’s the prince who can’t seem to stay dead.”

His gaze held hers a beat longer — not flirtation, but curiosity. Interest. As if trying to read a language only the sea spoke.

Behind her, Kaz stayed still, silent and sharp-eyed. Watching like he’d just read a page he wished to tear out.

She met Kaz’s gaze steadily, but for a heartbeat her eyes clouded with a flicker of something lost — a breath caught, lips tightening as the weight of unsaid words pressed between them heavier than any battle cry.

Jesper flicked a glance at Kaz, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.

Leaning close to Wylan, he muttered just loud enough for him to hear, “That’s not tension. That’s a war waiting to happen.”

Wylan shot him a warning glance, but Jesper only shrugged, eyes sharp and amused.

Before the moment could stretch, Kaz’s voice cut through — sharp, precise.

“If Inej has the blade, we don’t have a moment to waste.”

His gaze shifted between Y/n and Nikolai, steel-hard.

“We need to find Alina — no time for side businesses. ”

His limp was worse now, the rain having stolen what little ease he’d had. She hovered at his side, her presence was the only softness he allowed himself — and the only thing he couldn’t bear to lose again.

As the group moved — weapons clattering, footsteps echoing off broken stone — Nikolai slowed just enough to fall in step beside her. His voice lowered, meant only for her ears.

“I’ve heard rumors about you — that the sea answers your call,” he said, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But seeing you now… you’re far more captivating than any legend or song I’ve ever heard.”

She caught the genuine warmth in his eyes — a rare kind of honesty that didn’t demand or beg, but simply offered. It unsettled her more than she expected.

Legends are easier to bear than truths, she thought, steadying her breath. Would he understand the storms beneath the surface?

“I hope those tales weren’t too kind,” she murmured. “Reality has a way of disappointing even the boldest dreams.”

He stepped just a fraction closer, gaze locking with hers like a secret.

“Disappointment’s a risk I’ll gladly take — especially if it means crossing paths with you.”

Their footsteps slowed, the distant sounds of war fading into a gentle silence around them. Nikolai’s voice lowered again, almost a whisper.

“You move like the ocean itself — powerful, unpredictable, alive. Saints, it’s almost unfair.” He paused, eyes steady on hers. “There’s a poetry in you that not even the darkest war can drown.”

For a brief moment, he glanced away, as if his words had slipped past his guard.

Her breath hitched, a slow warmth curled beneath her ribs as their eyes locked — fierce, honest, impossible to look away from.

“I always thought princes cared more for crowns than verses.”

A tender smile softened his expression.

“Maybe so. But sometimes the heart chooses its own battles — and poetry is the fiercest of all.”

Their eyes locked, the world shrinking as there was only the electric space between them — a promise, a challenge, a fragile hope.

“Keep talking like that and you might convince me you’re worth following.”

“In Ravka, or anywhere, I follow only those who make the risk worth it.”

He gave her his usual easy smile, but as their eyes met, something caught him off guard — a quiet strength in her that made him pause longer than he intended. This felt different.

Unnoticed by both, Kaz stood a few paces away, leaning on his cane, his jaw tightening as he watched the easy intimacy between them. A flicker of something fierce, jealousy maybe, darkened his sharp eyes.

“Enough poetry for one night,” Kaz said, voice low but edged with steel.

Kaz hated how easy it was between them. Like she’d already begun to forget the Barrel, and everything it had made of her.

“There are darker things waiting for us than flirtations.”

Nikolai turned to him, a smirk playing on his lips. “And yet, sometimes it’s those moments that keep us alive.”

Kaz’s gaze sharpened. “Survive first. Then see if there’s time for… distractions.”

Y/n looked between them, sensing the unspoken tension. She gave Kaz a faint, understanding nod — her loyalty complicated but clear.

Nikolai’s eyes flicked back to her, warmer now, as if promising her safety beyond the coming storm.

The war waited, but for a heartbeat longer, so did something fragile and real, suspended in the night air.

After the Darkling’s death, the suffocating grip of the Fold began to loosen. The choking blackness that had swallowed the sky slowly thinned, surrendering to the pale, fragile light of dawn that bled across the horizon. The world was raw, scarred — but breathing again.

Y/n stood apart for a moment, the sea inside her finally stilling, the storm calmed. She looked out over the broken land, then back at the ragged group around her.

Kaz’s eyes found hers, and in that glance was an unspoken understanding — gratitude, something like relief, and maybe something more tangled beneath the surface. But beneath it all, a sharp edge of something darker: the realization that maybe he had already lost her.

Nikolai stepped closer to her, his usual charm softened by weariness and something gentler as he regarded her. “We’ve won a battle, but the war for Ravka’s future has just begun.”

His hand brushed briefly against hers, a touch light but deliberate, as if claiming a small piece of this fragile moment.

Alina nodded, strength returning to her voice. “The Darkling may be gone, but the Fold’s shadows won’t disappear overnight. We have to rebuild, protect what’s left.”

Kaz’s gaze flickered between them, the warmth he once claimed slipping through his fingers like water — impossible to grasp.

For the first time since the war began, a fragile peace settled over them. A moment to breathe, to heal, to plan for what would come next.

Ravka was quiet for the first time in weeks, but it was the kind of quiet that came after screaming — not peace, not calm, but the stunned silence of a world trying to make sense of what had been lost.

Kaz Brekker stood on a battered palace balcony, the wind tugged at his coat, the cane’s uneven rhythm sharp against the quiet. Jesper had tried to lighten the mood with jokes. Inej hovered close, her quiet presence a silent warning. But neither could reach him.

He watched it all happen — the kingdom piecing itself back together, the Saints being rewritten. And her. Always her.

Not his. Not really.

Not by blood, not by vow, not by any chain strong enough to hold her.

And yet, her absence already pressed against his ribs like a fresh wound — sharp and hollow. She hadn’t even left yet. But she could. At any moment.

And Kaz didn’t know how to stop her. Or if he even should.

Because for the first time in his life, the thing he wanted most wasn’t something he could steal. It was something he had to hope would choose to stay.

Behind him, the city was still shifting. Alina Starkov was rebuilding something holy. Nikolai Lantsov was readying himself for a new crown, wearing a war-torn smile. He’d already started calling her my Sea Queen after she’d calmed a storm that nearly swallowed a fleet.

It churned in Kaz’s gut like poison he couldn’t spit out. It twisted inside him, sharp and unrelenting, unnamed and unwelcome.

Jesper caught Kaz hunched over, grinding the blade against the whetstone.

“You’re going to wear that blade down to nothing,” Jesper said lightly. “Just like your heart.”

Kaz said nothing. But the blade didn’t leave his hand.

Now, standing at the edge of the palace rooftop, the rain bled gray tears down over Os Alta. Each drop a restless thought he couldn’t voice.

He heard her long before she came into view — the sharp, steady rhythm of boots against stone. Not like Inej, who moved like wind. Y/n never tried to be silent.

She didn’t need to. Each step carried purpose, a promise forged in the silence.

Kaz’s breath hitched, a subtle vibration rippling beneath his glove as his fingers tightened around the cane’s worn wood. It was a sound that pulled at something deep inside him — something unnamed, but always waiting.

She was coming.

And the city held its breath with him.

“Still brooding on rooftops?” Her voice was soft — too soft — as if she didn’t want to wake the wounded quiet of the world below.

Kaz didn’t turn.

She always found him in moments like this — when the city was stripped bare, when the world felt too heavy to carry, when he didn’t have the strength to pretend he wasn’t unraveling.

“I heard there’s a celebration in the lower ward,” she added. “Firelight and music. The kind of thing that makes people believe again.”

Silence stretched between them.

Her eyes flicked to his hand gripping the cane tighter than usual. She didn’t press him. She never did. Not when it mattered.

He finally spoke, voice barely more than gravel caught in a storm.

“And what do you believe in?”

It wasn’t a question he’d meant to ask.

Not out loud.

She looked at him for a long moment. Rain softened the angles of her face, caught gold in her lashes. She looked older now — not in years, but in the weight of what they’d lost.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think I want to find out.”

He hated how those words stung like a wound reopening, reminding him of all he couldn’t say aloud.

She wants to find out.

In Ravka?

With him?

There were good reasons for her to go. Better ones than staying. Ravka was rebuilding. There was order here. Opportunity. A king who had already looked at her like she was sunlight, not a weapon carved to fit the Barrel’s hand. She could be something else here. Someone else.

Not a Crow.

Kaz had seen Nikolai watching her. Not with greed, not even lust. Something more dangerous — admiration. That quiet, curious awe that only dreamers had when they found someone who could survive in the dark and still walk toward the light.

But Kaz knew the weight she carried. The things she’d done. The way she looked when the blood of another soaked her collarbone, and her eyes stayed dry.

But he also knew the way she laughed when she forgot who she was. The way her voice cracked when she sang old Zemeni lullabies to herself in the dark. The way she stood, right now, next to a boy who built a kingdom out of broken bones — and still didn’t flinch.

The thought clawed at his insides, relentless and cold.

He could give her a life without shadows. Without all… this.

And me? I’d just drag her back into the Barrel, into the Slat, into a city that chews girls like her up for coin.

He forced himself to look at her.

Water pooled at her boots. Bare hands, no gloves, no weapons — she hadn’t brought armor tonight.

She broke the silence.

“So this is where you vanish from the story?” she asked.

He swallowed.

“This was never my story to begin with.”

She gave a bitter smile.

“You never wanted it to be.”

Something inside him cracked — clean and sharp.

“You could stay here,” he said.

Not as a plea. Not a question. A test.

She didn’t take the bait.

“I could,” she said. “I could stay here. Be someone softer. Someone grateful.”

“I can’t make that choice for you.”

She stopped in front of him, looking directly into his eyes.

“You think I belong here. With him.”

She didn’t need to name Nikolai. His image hung between them anyway — clean-cut, golden-eyed, whole.

Kaz’s fingers flexed around his cane, leather groaning under pressure. He looked away.

“I think he’d be a fool not to want you.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, short and humorless.

“And you’re no fool. So what does that make you?”

Kaz didn’t answer. That was worse.

She didn’t look at him when she asked it. Maybe that’s why it hit harder.

“Will you be okay after this?”

Rain filled the silence. Kaz didn’t answer right away. He never rushed when it mattered.

His voice, when it came, was low and even.

“That depends on whether there’s anything left of me.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t touch him. Just stood there with her hair catching the wind, with a patience that somehow hurt worse than anger.

“I waited for you. Not for grand gestures or promises whispered in the dark — just for the truth. For you to tell me, even once, that you wanted me. That you needed me. But instead, I was left in the shadows, like a stray dog picking at crumbs, clinging to whatever scraps of hope I could find.

Her breath came fast now, her eyes shining — not with tears, but clarity.

“I waited and waited... Hope sliced me thinner than any blade. You never showed up, Kaz.”

Kaz swallowed hard, the weight of her words pressing down on him, and for the first time, fear flickered behind his cold eyes — fear that he had lost her forever.

“Stay,” he said, the word raw and broken. “Stay with me. I promise-“

“No.” Her voice was calm. “Too late for promises, Kaz Brekker.” She paused, eyes shining…with something sharper than sorrow. Clarity.

“Too late for you.”

Lightning split the sky in a jagged roar, illuminating the truth between them.

In that flash, she saw him as he truly was—not the ruthless Bastard of the Barrel, but the boy hiding behind every carefully constructed wall. She understood, but she was no longer tethered to the pain it caused.

She turned.

Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t ask him to follow.

And he didn’t.

Kaz wasn’t angry to her.

Because what could he offer her?

No crown. No peace. Just shadows. Just scars. Just him.

And still,

to the empty rooftop, to the rain, to the city that would never carry his secrets—

He whispered it anyway.

“I wanted you.”

A pause. A breath.

And maybe the worst part is… she knew.

He pressed a hand to his ribs, as if to hold the confession in — but the echo of her absence was louder than anything he’d ever dared to say.

The morning was heavy with the scent of damp earth and the soft hush of a city waking slowly. Mist curled through the narrow streets of Ravka, blurring the edges of the world as if reluctant to let go of what had been. The Crows moved silently, packing their belongings with careful hands, the usual banter replaced by a quiet weight pressing on each of them.

The Crows said their goodbyes to her. There was no anger, no bitterness — only a quiet, aching understanding. She had given them everything she could, bled for them, stolen for them, laughed and nearly died beside them. Now she was choosing something else. And they couldn’t blame her.

This was the path she needed to take.

Tears were shed, hugs held a little longer than usual, the weight of parting softened by the hope that they could still visit each other. No promises spoken, just the unspoken bond of a family stretched by distance but never broken.

As the rain fell softly around them, they stood together a moment longer — not quite ready to let go, but knowing they had to. Their hearts were heavy but steady. Wiser now. Wounded, but still beating.

Eventually, the world pulled them apart once more.

No one mentioned Kaz by name, but the space between them filled with what was left unsaid — the years of waiting, the battles fought alone in dark alleys, the promises broken in silence.

When the others turned away to give them space, Kaz Brekker finally stepped forward. No dramatic gesture. No grin. No soothing lie. Just Kaz — coat buttoned too tight, gloves pulled high over knuckles scarred by every fight he’d never truly escaped.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood there, rain dripping from the brim of his hat, cane tapping the stone between them like a slow heartbeat.

“You’re really leaving then,” he said, voice even but his eyes betraying him, flicking over her face like he was trying to pin every detail to memory.

She tilted her head, watching him just as carefully.

“Not leaving,” she said softly. “Just… not standing still anymore.”

His cane tapped once against the wet stones — a restless heartbeat she knew too well. “You always hated cages.”

She smiled at that, soft and a little sad. “You were never the cage, Kaz. You were the door I kept hoping would open.”

For a moment, the rain was the only sound between them — soft and persistent, like all the words they’d never spoken.

Kaz looked past her, toward the fog-bound street. “If you change your mind—”

She cut him off gently. “Then I know where the door will be…”

A beat.

“if it ever opens.”

*

Kaz and the Crows returned to Ketterdam without her.

He said nothing to the others. Not about the goodbye. Not about the look in her eyes, or the words that had lodged somewhere in his chest and refused to leave.

He drowned himself in work — ruthless deals, endless schemes, one job after another — rebuilding his empire like a man trying to bury grief beneath bricks, each wall he raised just another way to keep her memory out.

But the nights were long in Ketterdam.

And colder without her.

He wandered the docks more often now, coat pulled tight, cane tapping in time with the hush of the tide. He never stayed long — never let himself — but he always ended up there, near the water, like something in him hadn’t quite learned how to let go.

And sometimes, on cold nights when the wind blew just right, he swore he heard her — not in voice, but in feeling.

In the rhythm of waves kissing the stone. In the ache behind his ribs when the wind carried salt instead of smoke.

In the stillness between heartbeats, where her name had once lived.

Not a ghost.

Not a memory.

But the echo of someone he could have held — and didn’t.

Queen of the sea.

The girl who commanded oceans — and who had, for a fleeting, impossible moment, loved him the way the tide loves the shore.

With fierce devotion,

relentless pull,

and the sorrow of knowing,

she could never stay long enough

to calm the storm inside him.

But always enough to leave something behind.

*

Months had passed since the dust settled on Ravka’s war-torn lands. She struggled to find her footing in a world that expected more than she felt ready to give. The weight of expectation pressed down on her—not a crown, but a heavy cloak she hadn’t yet learned to wear with ease.

Inside, she was still that broken girl from the Barrel—the one who had fought to survive Ketterdam’s shadows. She tried to fit into that world, seeking strength among the Crows, but her heart never truly belonged.

At first, she wrestled with the sea inside her—the restless tides of power and pain that threatened to pull her under. They called her the Sea Queen—a name whispered with awe and fear—but beneath the legend, she knew the truth: she was just a girl trying to hold together the shattered pieces of a life tossed by stormy seas.

Kaz and the Crows haunted the edges of her mind, like distant echoes she couldn’t silence. She had hoped to leave them behind, but memories clung like salt in a wound—the sharp sting of loss, the weight of what was left unsaid, the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, she had mattered to them too.

Amid the chaos of rebuilding, Nikolai Lantsov was a rare constant—a light cutting through the shadows that clung to her days. He was nothing like the ruthless world she knew; instead, he moved with a quiet kindness that felt almost foreign. His smiles weren’t masks but genuine, and his eyes held a warmth that didn’t demand or judge—only offered.

When he was near, the heavy cloak of expectation seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. He never pressed her to be anything other than herself, even when the world expected her to wear a crown she wasn’t ready to claim. With him, she could breathe, could let the fierce edge of survival soften just a little.

It was in the details—the way he paused when she spoke, letting each word settle in the air; the effortless way his laugh could slice through the tension of a long day; the subtle, almost imperceptible way his fingers touched hers, a reminder that she was not invisible, not alone.

He didn’t need grand declarations or sweeping gestures. He made the ordinary feel deliberate, alive, almost sacred. Those moments weren’t loud or public, but they stayed with her, shaping the quiet spaces of her days in ways nothing else could. And she realized that sometimes, the smallest things carried the heaviest weight.

Nikolai saw her—not as a legend or a weapon. But as a person with cracks, scars, and dreams. In that recognition, she found a flicker of hope she hadn’t dared to chase before.

But even kindness was complicated when the past weighed so heavily. And sometimes, beneath Nikolai’s warmth, she felt the cold pull of the Barrel’s shadow still clinging to her—reminding her that some battles were fought not with swords, but with the ghosts inside.

*

Nikolai and Y/n stood side by side, watching the river’s restless flow, the sunlight dancing over ripples that seemed alive with secrets.

Nikolai’s eyes held a quiet wonder as he watched the river’s endless dance before shifting his gaze to her. “Most people fear the sea,” he said softly. “Afraid of drowning, of losing themselves in the endless blue. Afraid of being swallowed whole by something they can’t control.”

She met his gaze without hesitation, her voice low and steady. “And you? You don’t fear it?”

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray drop of rain. “How could I be afraid,” he murmured, “when the queen of the sea stands here with me? When the ocean itself bows to her? You are the tide that pulls me in, the current that carries me home.”

Her breath caught, heart pounding with something she hadn’t dared to name before. “You make it sound like I’m the only thing that keeps you afloat.”

He smiled, a tender, vulnerable smile that softened the king into the man she was beginning to know. “Because you are. You’re my anchor in every storm, the light guiding me through the darkest waters. Without you, I’d be lost forever.”

They stayed there, wrapped in the quiet symphony of river and rain, two hearts beating steady and sure against the vast, wild sea of the world around them.

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I: love you without end.

14 July 1926 Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov

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— Mary Lambert, Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across; "You Are with the Wrong Person" (via lunamonchtuna)

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i'm all the people i've ever loved

loseness lines over time by olivia de recat, @i-wrotethisforme, Kaveh Akbar, Olivie Blake

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— richard siken

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i love you, it looks like rain, june gehringer

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— josé olivarez // natalie diaz