Page 145 of Song of the Heart Scale
Damien noticed my laughter and arched a brow. “Is this one of those ‘modern marvels’ you keep talking about? Because it looks like it’s mocking me.”
“It’s just a coffee machine,” I teased. “You’ll survive.”
He gave the machine a dark look before finally managing to press the right button. The smell of brewing coffee filled the apartment, rich and familiar, mingling with the rain that tapped against the windowpane outside. Los Angeles didn’t often experience this much rain, but today the city felt quieter because of it. Softer. Like it was giving us a moment to just…breathe.
He brought me a mug and carefully placed it onto the table before crouching in front of me, his hands warm and sure as they rested against my stomach. “And how is our little one today?”
I smiled and threaded my fingers through his damp hair. “Kicking. Always kicking. Probably wondering why their dad is waging war against kitchen appliances.”
Huffing a laugh, he leaned in to press his forehead against the soft cotton stretched over my belly. I felt his warm breath against my skin, the quiet exhale of contentment. For someone who used to command armies, rule over shadows, and shift into a dragon, he was remarkably tender now. Gentle in ways I didn’t think he knew he was capable.
“You’re going to be such a good father,” I whispered.
His eyes lifted to meet mine. “Because of you.”
We didn’t talk about Elaria much anymore. Not because we’d forgotten, but because it felt distant now. Like a dream we’d both awakened from, hand-in-hand. But here, in this world of smog and sirens, Damien was simply Damien. My husband. The soon-to-be father of our child. A man learning to navigate traffic and Netflix and the concept of pizza delivery.
The world here spun differently. It was chaotic and fast and unforgiving. But there was beauty in it, too. Walks through the rain, coffee shops on corners filled with strangers, parks littered with laughter and street musicians. Nights spent curled together on the couch with his hand over my stomach, feeling our child move beneath his palm.
Sometimes we walked to the beach and watched the sun sink beneath the waves. Damien always stood a little apart, watching the horizon like he expected dragons to rise from the sea at any moment. I think part of him still missed the fight, the weight of a sword in his hand, the thrill of danger. But he never said it out loud. Instead, he let me tug him back to the blanket and wrapped his arms around me as the tide crept closer.
One night, as we sat in our tiny apartment and stared out the window at a sky painted in bruised purples and fading gold, I finally asked him. “Are you happy?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he inched closer on the couch and pulled me into his arms, careful of the baby bump between us. His fingers traced idle patterns on my thigh, a habit he’d picked up when he was thinking deep thoughts.
“I didn’t know what happiness looked like before you,” he said after a long silence. “I thought it was power. Or peace. Or revenge. But it’s… this. You. Us.”
Rain blurred the city skyline beyond our window. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn bleated. The neighbors upstairs argued about something trivial. And yet, in this moment, I wouldn’t trade places with any queen, Immortal, or legend.
I leaned in and kissed him, soft and slow. He tasted like coffee and home. His hands slid up my spine, anchoring me, grounding me, reminding me that this wasn’t a dream.
“I love you,” I murmured against his lips.
His smile was against my mouth. “Forever.”
Six months later, and every day still felt like a gift I hadn’t quite earned. We lived simply. There were no palaces or crowns. Just a cluttered apartment filled with mismatched furniture and a thousand tiny signs of the life we were building together. Ultrasound pictures taped to the fridge. Books piled in every corner. His sword mounted on the wall above our bed, a silent promise that no matter how far we’ve come, some parts of us will always belong to where we began.
We’ve fought our battles. We’ve buried our dead. We’ve made our peace.
And now? Now we waited for the next chapter. For small fingers and tiny cries. For sleepless nights and first steps. For all the quiet, beautiful moments still to come.
Damien brushed a kiss against my temple and whispered sweet nothings in my ear that made me giggle.
We sat like that for a while, tangled together on a rainy Los Angeles morning with our unborn child nestled safely between us. No war. No crowns. No portals. No dragons. Just the steady, quiet heartbeat of happiness.
And I knew in every fiber of my being that we had finally found our ending.
Or maybe… our beginning.
