Chapter 94 Morning Light
Malia's POV
I stir awake to feel fingers running through my hair—soft, rhythmic, calming. I don’t move for a moment, don’t open my eyes, just find myself in that liminal space between sleeping and waking where nothing hurts yet. The nightmares feel distant now. Faded. Like it’s from something that happened to somebody else.
I'm warm. I'm safe. The arm across my waist weighs me down to the bed, to reality, to the moment.
I move a bit and suddenly realize I’m not wearing any clothes, skin to skin, sheets wrapped around our legs, morning air nipping at my naked shoulders. bits of earlier.
The memories slips in and out of my mind: the shower, the urgent need for reality, the silent ball of flesh floating not just in space but whatever place we were both here.
“You awake?” Aiden’s voice is gentle, hoarse with sleep and something more. Tenderness maybe. Concern.
I open my eyes. He's propped on one elbow at my side, he's already awake, he's staring at me with those warm brown eyes that make me believe he's real, he's complete, he's himself. His hair is still somewhat wet, spiking in random directions. Morning light skirts along his features, draping him in gold.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hey you.” He leans down, presses a soft kiss on my forehead. Then my temple. Then the corner of my mouth soft, chaste, sweet. “How do you feel?”
My whole body is shaken pleasantly sore in spots and fatigued in others. My mind basks in a clarity I haven’t felt in days, as if the nightmares burned away some sort of mental fog that I didn't even realize was clinging to me.
"Better," I say truthfully.
His thumb glides beneath my cheekbone, as if inspecting my face for cracks and fractures, or signs that I’m breaking. "The dreams are getting worse?"
I nod against the pillow. "Dreams within dreams. I'd been waking up but I was still asleep. I couldn't tell what was real any more."
His jaw tightens. "That's why you were so—" He pauses, trying to find the words. "When you came in the shower, you were shaking."
"I needed to know you were real." My voice comes out smaller than I intend to make it to be. "I had to make sure I was really awake this time."
"You are." He shifts, closing the little bit of distance between us. "This is real. I'm real. We’re here."
I lift his face up, I trace his jawline with one finger, warm, beautifully flawed with the fainted stubble he gets when he doesn't shave.
He takes my hand, bring it to his lips, one by one he kisses my knuckles. "No more faceless nightmares. Nothing but me. Annoying, totally real, presently skipping morning warm-up me.”
That makes me smile through it all. "You’re skipping practice?"
“Coach is going to kill me.” He doesn't sound very worried. "Worth it."
"Aiden—"
"I'm not leaving you in this state." His voice is hard, final. "Practice can wait. You're more important."
My chest tightens gratitude and guilt swirling together into something that tastes a little like honey. "I miss you," I say under my breath. "I miss this. Miss us."
His face changes, pain flashes across his features before he reins it in to a neutral mask. "I know. I miss you too."
"It seems like we never get to see each other much anymore." The words are out before I can stop them. "Like the island was the last time we were actually us and now we’re just—separate. Drifting."
He’s silent for a long moment, still running his fingers through my hair in that comforting pattern. His voice is cautious as he speaks. "It's just that there's so much to do this term. Coach has us working twice as hard . And the coursework—" He exhales. "I'm drowning in it. Everyone is."
"I'm aware of that." And I do. I understand it logically. But logic doesn't fill the holes left by his absence.
"It's not that I don't want to be with you," he continues, as if I need to be told. “Every time I turn around there’s another practice, another assignment, another meeting. And then there’s—”
He stops himself.
"There's what?"
He hesitates. "Pressure. From the team. From—people. About focus. About priorities."
My stomach drops.
His thumb glides over my cheekbone once more as if he’s committing my face to memory. “People talk.You know how it is here. Lineage politics, scholarship status, who’s dating who by territorial lines. It’s all—It means things to them that it shouldn’t.”
"And it matters to you?" I try not to let the pain seep into my voice.
"No." Instant. Ferocious. He cups my face with both hands, and I have to look up into his eyes. "You matter. Everything else is just—noise.”
"Noise that's getting louder," I remind us quietly.
He can’t argue with that.
"I'm sorry," he says finally. "For the distance. For not being here more."
"It's not your fault." I place mine over one of his hands. "We're both just—trying to survive this place. These expectations."
"I hate that you're going through this alone." His voice roughens. “The nightmares, Vesper’s bullshit, all of it. You shouldn’t have to—”
"I’m not alone." I move in a little closer and rest my forehead against his. "You're here now. That counts.”
"It's not enough."
"It has to be.” Because what’s the alternative? Demanding more time he doesn’t have? Creating more pressure when he’s already drowning? “We work with what we’ve got.”
He kisses me then slow, deep, and full of things he can’t say out loud. Apology. Promise. To whatever the hell that means. a promise to something neither of us really has the faith to adhere to in this. I kiss him with equal urgency, my fingers laced in his hair, pulling him closer to me.
The sheets fall down. Skin meets skin. We're heating up again still not sweaty like before, but sweet heat. Deliberate.
This time we move in unison, deliberately, a little slower —there’s no need to rush, no need whatsoever to panic, just the quiet knowing that the two of us are standing here in this moment, choosing one another, even as everything else seems to be crumbling around us.
We’ve done this so many times now that we know each other’s bodies like second languages, fluent in the little sounds, the sore spots, the rhythm that works.
“I love you,” I breathe in his mouth.
“I love you too.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, seriousness in his eyes. “That doesn’t change. No matter how crazy things get. That stays the same.”
I want to believe him. Want to hang on to this certainty.
But still, I hear the voice of the faceless lady echoing in the back of my mind: He will leave you. They all will.
I shake the thought aside. Focus on now. His hands on my skin. On his breath with mine. On the solid, undeniable truth of now.
We took our time making love as the morning light brightened—golden now, spilling radiant warmth that cast a glow upon everything, softening, sheltering, inviting us to believe in more.
Then we lie tangled up, our sweat cooling on our skin, breathing in sync. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my shoulder. Mine lie on top of his heart, and I can feel the steady beat under my palm.
“We’re going to be fine,” he tells me quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He kisses the top of my head. “I don’t know how yet. But we will be.”
I want to believe him. So badly it hurts.
Outside, the clock tower on campus tolls eight. Classes begin in an hour. Reality interrupts with its usual needs.
“You should shower,” I say softly into his chest. “Actually shower this time. You smell like—”
“Like you.” He grins, shamelessly. “Can’t complain.”
I tap his shoulder lightly. “Go. Before we’re both late.”
H shifts, beginning the unwilling act of shearing himself away from me and the sheets. “Come with me?”
“To shower?”
“To class. Just walk together like we used to.”
It’s such a tiny thing. Such an inconspicuous thing to do on a normal day. But it’s as if the gesture is saying—fighting against the forces trying to tear us apart.
"Okay," I agree.
We shower together, but it is longer than it should be, his hands continually wandering and mine excuses seeking hers. Eventually we emerge clean and slightly more awake.
I put on jeans and a sweater. He’s wearing a hoodie I stole from him months ago and never gave back. We look tumbling-down-the-stairs, clearly-a-couple, wholly unapologetically dressed for the weather.
“Ready?” he says, holding out his hand.
I take it. “Ready.”
We step out into the morning together now — hands clasped, shoulders touching, right up against whatever’s coming next.
But it made me shiver…