It was stupid, really—how the world could feel like it was crashing down one minute and then taste like chocolate-dipped waffle cones the next. But that was the thing about days like this. About her. Seraphina Arden Vale was nothing if not a master of the impossible. Turning breakdowns into road trips. Pain into playlists.

And today? Today she was choosing joy. For him, yes. But also, maybe, for herself.

The ice cream place was one of those kitschy roadside spots with hand-painted signs and mismatched chairs on the patio. They ordered without hesitation—hers a double scoop of lavender honey and vanilla bean in a waffle cone, his something chaotic and chocolate-drenched. He made a face at hers. She mocked his lack of sophistication. And when he got whipped cream on his nose, she didn’t tell him. Just laughed into her cone until she almost dropped it.

It was simple. Stupid. Perfect.

The bookstore was next. It wasn’t spontaneous—she’d told him this morning it was on the agenda, and he’d groaned like it was a chore. But he didn’t fool her. He never had.

He always claimed thrift bookstores gave him allergies. That they were dusty and overwhelming and full of weird people who liked weird poetry. But he still showed up every single time. Still drifted to the shelves with the tattered hardcovers and picked out books with dog-eared pages like he wasn’t a total romantic underneath all that bravado.

Sera caught him lingering at the sports memoirs, then again in the fiction aisle, pretending to look bored. She didn’t call him out. Just handed him a copy of something obscure and sad with a too-pretty cover and said, “You’ll hate this. It’s perfect.” He didn’t put it down.

She found a poetry book with a cracked spine and a scribbled name in the margins. She bought it without thinking. Said something about loving things that had been loved before.

And now, here they were. The car winding up a familiar mountain road. Her favorite overlook waiting at the top like it always did.

She was driving—because she always did when she needed to feel like she had some kind of control. Her fingers tapped absently against the steering wheel in time with the music, a mix he was in charge of. He took the job seriously. Switched the song three times before settling on something slow and warm, the kind of melody that made the whole world feel a little softer around the edges.

She didn’t say anything. Just let the road unfold ahead of them.

The breeze slipped in through the cracked window. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her hair. Her heart beat a little faster with every turn in the road—not out of nerves, exactly. Just the weight of what this place meant. What this day was.

And for a second, just a second, she let herself feel it. The ache of the unknown. The pressure to hold it all together. The quiet, gnawing fear that maybe they were running out of these moments.

But then she glanced over. Saw the way he had one arm draped casually out the window. The way his shoulders weren’t so tense anymore. The way he looked at her like maybe, just maybe, things weren’t falling apart after all.

So she straightened her spine. Shifted the gear with a little extra flair. And smiled like she wasn’t unraveling a little at the seams.

They pulled into the overlook just as the sky began its slow descent into fire—pink and gold spilling over the treetops, the lake below catching the light like it was holding its breath.

Sera cut the engine and stepped out first, closing the door with a quiet finality. She didn’t climb onto the hood right away. Just stood for a moment, breathing in the stillness, the smell of pine and earth and sun-warmed air.

Then she moved.

Up onto the hood with practiced ease, legs crossed at the ankle, posture effortless. Regal. Like she owned the view. Like this was hers—because it was.

Asher joined her a moment later. Hesitant. A little slower. But she didn’t rush him.

She kept her eyes on the horizon, the wind teasing strands of her hair as the sun dipped low, casting everything in that soft, golden glow usually reserved for perfume commercials and divine epiphanies.

“Okay, but honestly,” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder like she was being filmed, “this lighting? Is doing wonders for my cheekbones. Like, someone should paint me. Or name a limited edition lipstick after me. ‘Golden Hour Vale’—subtle shimmer, overwhelming beauty, leaves emotional devastation in her wake.”

She said it like a joke, but she meant every word—and he knew it.

There was that flicker in his eyes again, that flash of something lighter. Something almost amused. And that was the goal.

“Don’t even act like you’re not thinking the same thing,” she added, casting him a sideways glance. “You’re just mad I got the good side of the sunset.”

She leaned back on her hands, legs still crossed at the ankle, completely composed like she wasn’t holding the mood up with one hand and fending off reality with the other.

Because if the world was going to fall apart, they might as well look flawless while it did.

It was so stupid how she made it feel like none of it mattered—the pressure, the future, the constant, gnawing ache of not knowing—like it could all be drowned out by lavender ice cream, overpriced thrift store poetry, and the way she said “golden hour” like it was something she invented.

But here they were.

She sat on the hood like she belonged to the sunset, ankles crossed, head tilted just slightly like she knew how good she looked in this light. And honestly? She did. He’d never seen anyone play it off like that—effortless and composed and a complete chaos machine underneath it all.

And damn if he didn’t love her for it.

He sat beside her, a little slower and hesitant, because that was always their rhythm—her leading, him catching up.

She was talking about her cheekbones, about being painted, worshipped, bottled in lipstick. “Golden Hour Vale,” she said like it was a joke, like it wasn’t true.

But he couldn’t stop looking at her.

Not just because she was beautiful, she was—undeniably so—but it was something else. It was the way she was still here, still holding the day together like it hadn’t nearly swallowed them both just a few hours ago.

“You’re just mad I got the good side of the sunset.”

He let out a slow breath, lips twitching despite himself. Not quite a smile, not yet, but something warmer. Something that hadn’t lived in him for a while.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured, eyes still on her, voice quieter than the moment probably called for. “I’m just… trying to remember it exactly how it is right now.”

Because of this?

He’d replay this moment when it got hard, and the campus felt too big, when everyone expected too much when he didn’t know who the hell he was without this town or this team or her.

He leaned back on his palms, letting the light catch on his skin, the dust in the air, and the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

The breeze tugged gently at his shirt, and the scent of pine drifted up from the ridge below. Everything smelled like the end of something.

But she was beside him. And she was laughing. And for now, that was enough.

“Golden Hour Vale,” he repeated, tilting his head slightly, finally letting the grin breakthrough. “Sounds about right. But you forgot the part where she gives unsolicited life advice and turns breakdowns into scenic detours.”

He looked at her fully now, the sky painting the lines of her face like the world had saved its best light just for her.

“You’re ridiculous,” he added, voice soft.

Then, after a beat:
“But thank you. For today.”

He didn’t say I needed this.
He didn’t say I’m scared of what comes next.
He didn’t have to.

She knew.

She didn’t look at him right away.

Just smirked at the treeline like it had said something flattering. Like the whole mountain agreed with him and she was graciously accepting the praise.

Then—slowly, dramatically—she turned.

“One day,” she said, lashes fluttering like she was in a movie and fully aware of it, “you’re going to give a very moving speech at my inevitable Vanity Fair cover reveal. And I want you to remember this moment, okay? The one where you realized I wasn’t just breathtaking—I was also emotionally generous and disturbingly well-timed.”

She bumped her shoulder against his. Light. On purpose.

“And unsolicited life advice is my love language,” she added, more casual now, the edge of playfulness softening into something warmer. “You should know that by now.”

She didn’t say you’re welcome.

Didn’t say I know or I needed it too or don’t you dare fall apart before prom, I just booked the photographer.

Instead, she let the silence settle again, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Then, without looking at him, she muttered just loud enough for him to hear:

“Ridiculous looks good on me, though. Admit it.”

And there it was—another crack of light in the middle of everything. A perfectly timed detour. A little breath of golden hour grace.

But as the breeze caught her hair and the weight of the moment pressed in again, something inside her twisted.

Not enough to show. Just enough to feel.

Because the truth was: she was scared. Of endings. Of change. Of the fact that they’d made it this far and it still didn’t feel like enough time. But she couldn’t tell him that. Not now. Not when he was finally breathing easy.

So instead—she screamed.

Loud. Sharp. Into the wind like it would carry the worst parts of her away.

It echoed across the ridge, fierce and unapologetic, and when she was done, she was breathless and a little stunned and laughing again.

She turned to him, eyes bright, voice hoarse but teasing:
“Okay, your turn. Go on. Scream. I know you want to.”

She nudged him with her knee like it was a dare. Like it wasn’t everything she needed, just to know he still had that fire in him. That they both did.

“Don’t make me start listing unhinged celebrity baby names until you crack,” she warned, eyebrow raised. “Because I will go alphabetical and deep dive into the Kardashians.”

A pause. A softer smile.

“Come on, Cole. Scream with me.”

Because she couldn’t stop what was coming. But she could stand next to him in the middle of it. Loud. Alive. Unafraid—for both of them.

Asher didn’t respond at first.

He just watched her.

The way she smirked at the trees like they were paparazzi. The way her shoulder brushed his with that featherlight kind of affection that said I’m still here. Her words—half a joke, half a prayer—wrapped around the weight in his chest and loosened it without asking permission.

God, she was ridiculous.
And God, he loved her for it.

She called it unsolicited life advice, but it always felt like rescue to him.

He could’ve laughed—probably should’ve—but the truth sat too close to his ribs. Because even now, with the sky lit up like a slow-burning miracle and her laugh echoing in his ears, there was that familiar twist in his gut.

That's what happens if we’re running out of time ache.

He didn’t say it. I wouldn’t ruin the moment with words like that. She hadn’t said it either, but he saw her smile waver when she thought he wasn’t looking. She launched into the wind in the scream like it owed her an answer.

She turned to him after, breathless and bright-eyed and beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten.

And then she said it.
“Come on, Cole. Scream with me.”

At first, he thought about telling her no. It's about saying something clever. About playing it cool like always. But she nudged him again, her knee pressing into his, and it hit him—

She wasn’t just joking.
She was offering him freedom.

So Asher stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just steady. Grounded.

He took one step forward, toes at the edge of the overlook, the wind lifting his hair, the sun kissing the back of his neck like a benediction. And for a moment, he just breathed. In. Out. Here.

Then he let it go.

A raw, unfiltered sound. Not polished. Not theatrical. Just real. It cracked out of his chest and into the open sky, loud and aching, something between rage and relief.

It echoed.
And it felt good.

When he turned back, she watched him like he was a sunrise of his own—messy, human, and alive.

“Okay,” he said, voice hoarse, eyes still burning. “That was… yeah.”

He sat down again beside her, their legs brushing.

She didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to.

The wind moved around them, softer now. There was a silence that said, "We made it through something."

He reached over quietly and laced their fingers together. No theatrics. No punchlines. Just presence.

And for once, that was all he needed.

She didn’t look away when he stood. Didn’t fill the silence with another sarcastic line or pretend it didn’t matter. She just watched.

The wind curled around them like it was eavesdropping, tugging at the hem of her skirt, brushing her hair against her cheek in soft, wild waves. She made no move to tame it. Let it whip and twist. Let it match the part of her that felt too big for this moment and too small for what was coming.

But him?

He moved like he meant it. No theatrics. No swagger. Just something honest in the way he straightened his spine and stepped into the hush. The way the sun spilled gold over his shoulders like it knew what he was carrying and decided to bless him anyway.

She held her breath.

Then he screamed—and God, she felt it.

It wasn’t just a sound. It was everything he never said. Every time he swallowed fear or anger or uncertainty because being Asher Cole meant being steady, being golden, being fine. It was fury and fear and something fierce breaking loose from his chest and flinging itself into the sky like it might just reach whatever came next and tear it open.

Sera blinked, and her throat burned like she’d been the one to scream.

He turned back, wrecked and radiant, and for a second, he looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered. And maybe she was. Maybe they both were.

She smirked because she had to—because sincerity came easier when it was wrapped in sarcasm.

“Ten out of ten. No notes. Remind me to book you a sound booth and a rage coach.”

But her voice didn’t have its usual edge. It was soft. Light. Like a lullaby dressed as a dare.

He sat beside her again, and she didn’t say anything else for a beat.

She just looked at him. Really looked at him. Hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed, still catching his breath like he wasn’t used to making room for it.

And she felt something in her chest twist in that slow, dangerous way.

Affection. Admiration. Love.

“You know,” she said finally, nudging his knee with hers, “you’re kind of annoying when you’re that hot and emotionally available. It’s rude, honestly.”

A beat. Her voice softened.

“I’m proud of you, Cole.”

The sky was starting to dim now, gold fading into violet, shadows stretching longer across the ridge. The moment felt wrapped in velvet—soft and fleeting and too pretty to last.

She sighed, leaning back on her palms, head tilted to the wind.

“It’s getting late,” she said, almost reluctant. “And as much as I’d love to sleep under the stars and wake up with a raccoon in my hair, we’ve got school tomorrow. Bells to sleep through, teachers to impress. Come on. Let’s get out of here before it gets serial killer dark.”

She stood, brushing imaginary dirt off her jeans and throwing him one last grin over her shoulder before climbing behind the steering wheel.

He stayed still for a moment after she walked back to the car. For example, if he moved too fast, the moment might vanish. If he breathed too deeply, he might feel everything all over again.

But she’d said it.
I’m proud of you, Cole.

He held onto that like it meant more than she’d ever let on.

Because it did.

The scream had cracked something open in him, sure—but it was her reaction that did him in. The way she didn’t look away. The way she didn’t rush to fix it. She held the silence like it was sacred, like he was sacred, even wrecked and unraveling.

She could’ve made a joke. She did—of course she did—but even her jokes were gentler now, lined with softness instead of teeth. A lullaby dressed as a dare. He’d remember that phrasing forever.

And that look she gave him?

It split him wide open.

There weren’t a lot of people who saw him. Not the golden boy, lacrosse captain, or grinning hallway flirt. Just… him. But she did. And every time she looked at him like that, he felt like he could finally see himself.

So when she said it was getting late, when she made some crack about raccoons, serial killers, and school bells they were both planning to ignore anyway, he didn’t argue.

He stood slowly, letting the light shift across his face as the sun dipped lower behind the ridge. His heart was still beating loud, but not from the scream, not from the view.

From her.

Asher watched her move—carefree and confident, brushing off dirt that wasn’t there, making this whole thing look easy even though he knew it wasn’t. She was unraveling, too. He could feel it. But she carried it better. Carried him better.

He ran a hand through his hair, slow, like maybe he could comb all the feelings out of it, then followed her to the car.

She was already behind the wheel, waiting like she knew he’d come. And she hadn’t looked back—didn’t need to. That was the thing about Sera.

She trusted he’d follow.
And he always did.

He opened the passenger door, slid in beside her, and glanced over just once before she started the engine.

Still here.

Still his.

Still them—for now.

The sky outside was darkening, but his chest felt a little lighter. It's not fixed, not finished; it's just less heavy.

And that was enough.

He didn’t say a word.

He didn’t have to.

He looked at her, then out at the road ahead.

And then Asher Cole—quiet, wrecked, alive—closed the door, leaned back in his seat, and let her drive them home.

The air felt thinner up here.
Or maybe that was just her.

Sera stood at the edge of the overlook, wind tugging at the sleeves of her sweater, the faint city lights of Evergreen blinking below like a promise she hadn’t decided whether to trust. Her car was parked haphazardly behind her, driver’s door still cracked open, like she'd needed to escape more than arrive.

And maybe she had.

She heard Lana’s car pull in but didn’t turn around right away. She couldn’t. Her fingers curled tighter around the wooden railing. Not from cold—though the mountain air had a bite tonight—but because if she didn’t hold on to something, she might start floating again. Or breaking. Or both.

When she finally glanced over, Lana was already walking toward her. Calm. Quiet. That same steady presence Sera had come to crave like oxygen.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Sera’s throat tightened at the sight of her. That face she could recognize in a blackout. The way she moved—measured but loose, like she’d fight for you and then kiss you quiet all in the same breath. The kind of girl you didn’t fall for. You crashed.

Sera turned fully now.

And once she did, it was like the dam broke.

“I told them,” she said, voice fraying at the edges, soft enough to almost be stolen by the wind. “My parents. About… you. About me.”

The last word lingered. Me. As if that was the bigger confession.

“I thought it would feel like relief. Or defiance. Or at least something movie-worthy, you know? But mostly it just felt like I was handing them a problem they didn’t want to fix.”

She laughed—but it wasn’t really a laugh. More like a release valve on a pressure tank.

“My mom blinked twice. Then she poured more tea. Tea, Lana. Like I had just told her the stock market dipped or her Pilates class was rescheduled.”

Her hands moved as she talked—sharp gestures, cutting the air around her like she could carve out space where her voice would matter more.

“And my dad? He didn’t even look at me. Just said, ‘We raised you to be smart, Seraphina. Don’t let college make you reckless.’”

The venom in her tone cracked halfway through. Because it still hurt. God, it still hurt.

She looked down at her boots, scuffed from pacing the Vale marble foyer for too long before she’d dared to open her mouth. She’d worn them like armor. But armor only worked when the arrows weren’t coming from the inside.

“I think part of me wanted them to fight for it,” she admitted. “To yell. To cry. To ask questions. Something. Anything to prove that I mattered enough to argue over.”

Her voice dropped lower.

“But silence? Silence feels like exile with better manners.”

Her lip trembled. She bit it.

“I didn’t even say your name. I wanted to—I almost did. But then I thought about them knowing how soft I am for you. How much you ruin me just by existing in my orbit. And I got scared. Like if I said it out loud, I was handing them a way to hurt you too.”

Sera finally looked up, eyes finding Lana’s—quiet and unwavering in the dark.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” she whispered. “I need you to know that. I’m not ashamed of us.”

She took a step closer.

“I just didn’t want to watch the way they would look at you and not see you.”

Another breath. Shaky this time.

“I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know if they’ll call. Or pretend it never happened. Or if I’ll be disinvited from Christmas brunch and replaced with a very tasteful donation to some ‘family values’ charity.”

Her voice cracked again, this time with something close to a bitter smile.

“But I know this. I walked out of that house feeling small and furious and very, very alone.”

She reached for Lana’s hand.

“And now I don’t.”

She didn’t ask for anything. Didn’t need to.

Because standing here, in this quiet space above the town she once ruled and now only visited, Sera Vale felt like she was finally choosing herself.

And maybe—for the first time in her life—that was the victory.

Lana didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t rush to fill the silence with soft words or platitudes that would only cheapen what Sera had just laid bare. She just stood there — shoulder to shoulder now, their hands clasped between them like a lifeline — and let the wind blow straight through her.

She didn’t mind the cold.

Not tonight.

Because Sera Vale had just lit herself on fire in front of her, and the least Lana could do was keep watch.

Her thumb brushed the back of Sera’s hand. Once. Slow. Deliberate.

And then — voice low, unshaking — she finally said:

“You did something brave tonight.”

Not grand. Not poetic. Just true.

“And not just brave in the way people mean when they want to hand you a rainbow sticker and move on. Brave like — you bled for it. Quietly. Carefully. And still.”

Lana turned, meeting Sera’s eyes fully now. There was no flicker of pity there. Just reverence. Just seeing.

“Your mom poured tea,” she said gently, “because pretending is easier than reckoning. And your dad? He picked the word reckless because wrong would’ve required admitting he doesn’t know you at all.”

She paused.

“But I do.”

Lana stepped a little closer, the gravel crunching under her boots. She reached up, brushed a strand of hair away from Sera’s face — not soft, not romantic, just necessary. Like clearing fog from glass so the truth could see out.

“I know the girl who sits three inches away on the couch because she’s scared to sit two. I know the girl who kisses like she’s apologizing for wanting anything too much. I know the girl who went to dinner with my family last month and couldn’t stop laughing when my aunt brought out a cake that said ‘Happy Gender Reveal Divorce.’”

She smiled, barely.

“And I know the girl who stood in front of people who were supposed to love her unconditionally… and told the truth anyway.”

Lana’s voice dropped, rich with the kind of emotion she only let loose in rare moments like this — sharp and steady all at once.

“You are not small.”

She gripped Sera’s hand a little tighter.

“And you are not alone.”

The city below flickered like an afterthought. The stars above leaned in, just a little. And Lana — who had been a lot of things in her life, but never quite enough for someone who needed her — felt her heart brace for impact.

“I don’t care if your parents know my name,” she said quietly. “But I want you to say it. Not for them. For you.”

Another beat.

“Say my name, Sera. Let it be something you choose.”

Her thumb brushed again — gentle now, coaxing. Not demanding.

“And I’ll say yours. Every damn day.”

The wind howled. Somewhere far below, a car alarm chirped once and then went still.

But up here, it was just them.

The girl who had walked out of a house full of rules, and the girl who had been waiting at the edge of the world to catch her.

And maybe that was the point.

You don’t always run toward safety.

Sometimes, you run toward truth — and hope like hell someone meets you halfway.

The moment cracked her open.

Not loudly. Not with a sob or a scream or some cinematic collapse. But quietly — like a glass held too tight for too long, hairline fractures spidering beneath the surface until something shifted inside and she couldn’t keep pretending it wasn’t broken.

Lana's words still echoed in her chest. Not just heard — absorbed. Like they belonged there. Like they’d always been hers.

Sera blinked once. Then again.

And then she breathed.

For the first time all night, she breathed.

Her voice came out wrecked and trembling, but she didn’t care. Not now.

“Lana.”

She didn’t look away when she said it. Didn’t downplay it or wrap it in nervous laughter. Just said it — full-bodied, unflinching, like it was hers to speak and always had been.

Lana’s name. Not a secret. Not a shame.

A declaration.

“I love your name,” Sera whispered, voice still fraying at the edges. “It tastes like rebellion and safety and that awful sparkling water you drink like it’s holy.”

Her eyes burned. She let them.

“I love how you look at me like I’m made of more than mirrors. I love the way you show up — like there’s never been a version of me you wouldn’t stand beside, even when I can’t look in the mirror without flinching.”

She laughed — a watery, broken sound — and stepped forward, closing the last of the distance between them. Their foreheads brushed.

“You know what I thought about when my dad said that? Reckless?”

Her hands found Lana’s jacket, fingers curling into the fabric like it could anchor her in this moment, in this truth.

“I thought about how I’ve been reckless for them my whole life. Chasing grades, status, trophies, control — like maybe if I just earned enough of their pride, I wouldn’t have to notice how cold their love really was.”

Her throat bobbed.

“But this? You? This isn’t reckless, Lana.”

She let the words hang there, raw and shaking.

“This is the first thing that’s made sense.”

She drew in a breath. Let it fill her, anchor her.

“They wanted me to feel small. They wanted me to walk back into that house and make it easier for them to forget.”

She shook her head.

“But I won’t. I’m done shrinking for people who only love me in fractions.”

Her thumb swept along Lana’s jaw — reverent, shaking, real.

“You are not a mistake I have to survive. You’re the truth I want to live out loud.”

The city lights below blinked like Morse code. She imagined translating them into something she could carry — a message, maybe. Or a promise.

She didn’t know what happened next.

Not with her parents. Not with holidays or family names or whispered judgments from behind crystal glasses.

But she knew this:

She wasn’t going back.

Not to silence. Not to shame. Not to any version of herself that treated love like a liability.

And with Lana’s name on her lips, her hands in hers, and the sky wide open above them—

She didn’t have to.

Lana didn’t move.

Not right away.

She let every word Sera said sink into the marrow of her. Felt it like heat. Like weight. Like something sacred she didn’t dare touch too fast, for fear it might vanish.

So she breathed instead. Let the night hold them.

And then—softly, carefully—she lifted one hand, brushing her knuckles against Sera’s cheek. Just enough to anchor them both.

“I hear you,” she said, quiet as dusk. “All of it.”

She could’ve said more. Could’ve filled the space with declarations or metaphors or that favorite poem she used to quote when Sera wasn’t looking. But this wasn’t the moment for poetry. This was the moment for truth.

So she stepped even closer. Let their foreheads rest together. Let her hand stay at Sera’s jaw, thumb brushing skin that trembled and steadied all at once.

“I’m not here to be a rebellion,” Lana murmured. “Or a statement. Or even a thing they’ll try to fold into politeness and pretend they accept.”

She pulled back just enough to meet Sera’s eyes.

“I’m here because I love you.”

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

“Because every time you doubt whether you’re allowed to feel big, I want to be the person who reminds you that you are the whole sky.”

Her voice stayed low. Grounded. Like a vow.

“You don’t owe them ease, Sera. You don’t owe them shrinkage. You are not reckless for wanting joy.”

Lana leaned in again, hand sliding to the back of Sera’s neck, gentle and warm.

“And for the record,” she added, half a whisper, “I love that you love my name.”

Her laugh was breathy. Real. Cracked open, too.

“I love that you say it like it’s sacred. Like it means something coming from you. Because it does. You do.”

She let the silence settle again—this time not heavy, but held.

Then, very gently, she said:

“We don’t have to know what comes next.”

A pause. A breath.

“We just have to stay soft. Stay honest. Stay us.”

And with one last press of her forehead to Sera’s, Lana breathed:

“I’m not going anywhere.”