Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Matchmakers’ office was deceptively quiet.

UNMATCHABLE.

UNMATCHABLE, UNMATCHABLE, UNMATCHABLE.

The word was the same each time, clanging against her skull with every heartbeat.

Sophie sat perched on the edge of a too-polished chair, hands twisted in her lap, the delicate folds of her tunic clinging uncomfortably to damp palms. Everything about the chamber was designed to be soothing—soft golden light drifting down from levitating crystals, walls lined with shelves of glowing scrolls, the faintest hum of enchanted air meant to calm nerves. It only made her feel more on display.

Across from her, the Matchmaker studied her file. The woman’s face was a mask of serene professionalism, her golden circlet catching the light as she tilted her head to read. Sophie’s ears roared. Every second dragged like a weighted stone sinking deeper into her chest.

“You have to understand,” the Matchmaker finally said, voice gentle but immovable, “our system considers a multitude of factors: genetic compatibility, family lines, ability alignment, the legacy of your heritage. We take every detail seriously.”

Sophie nodded. Her throat was too tight to speak.

The woman closed the file with deliberate care, folding her hands on top of it. “Miss Foster… I regret to inform you that the registry cannot find you a match.”

The words echoed in Sophie’s mind like a crystal shattering. Unmatchable.

For a long moment she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even blink.

The Matchmaker’s voice softened, trying to cushion the blow: “It isn’t a judgment of your worth. But without known parents, without confirmed lineage, the system simply cannot—”

Sophie pushed back her chair. The scrape of wood on marble sounded far too loud. “I understand.” Her voice cracked, betraying her.

She didn’t wait for the woman to say more. She left the office with her face carefully blank, her emotions sealed behind walls that felt seconds from collapsing.

Edaline rose from her chair in the waiting area as Sophie emerged. “Sweetheart? How did it go?”

Sophie forced her lips into something resembling a smile. “Fine. It was fine.”

“Just fine?” Edaline tilted her head, trying to read her.

“I’m tired,” Sophie said quickly, pulling her hair forward to shadow her expression. “Can we go home?”

Edaline hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press. She wrapped an arm around Sophie’s shoulders, leading her toward the Leapmaster. “Of course. We’ll make something sweet tonight. You can tell me all about it if you want.”

Sophie nodded mutely. She never told her.

That night, Sophie lay awake staring at the carved ceiling beams of Havenfield, the word burning into her thoughts: Unmatchable.

She tried to picture the future she’d always assumed was waiting. A life where she and Fitz fit neatly together, where their story was already written in the stars. She remembered his easy smiles, the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, the hesitant almost-confessions that had strung them along.

And now she saw all of it crumbling.

How could Fitz—perfect Fitz, with his perfect family and their perfect legacy—ever survive the scandal of being tied to someone who couldn’t even be matched? She didn’t need the Matchmaker to explain the shame. She could imagine the whispers. The disapproval. The disappointment.

Her chest ached.

It wasn’t just rejection from the Matchmakers—it was the death of the version of herself she’d tried so hard to live up to.

She bit her lip until it stung. She would have to tell him. She couldn’t keep it a secret. But imagining the look on his face made her want to disappear into the floorboards.

She found him the next afternoon. The Silver Tower’s garden was quiet, dappled light shifting through branches heavy with starflowers. Fitz was waiting for her, leaning casually against a white stone archway. He smiled when he saw her.

“Hey. How’d it go? I’ve been dying to hear.”

Her stomach dropped. She gripped the hem of her tunic, nails digging into the fabric.

“Fitz… I need to tell you something.”

His smile faded. He straightened, sensing the weight in her tone. “What is it?”

Sophie forced herself to meet his eyes. “The Matchmakers. They… they said I’m unmatchable.”

The word hung between them, heavier than she’d expected.

Fitz’s mouth opened, then closed again. He blinked rapidly, as if buying time. “Unmatchable? But—are you sure? Maybe they made a mistake. We can ask them to—”

“There wasn’t a mistake.” Sophie’s voice cracked despite her best effort. “They said it was because of my unknown parents. Because they can’t trace my lineage.”

Fitz’s face twisted with something she couldn’t bear to name. Not disgust exactly, but confusion, fear—like he was suddenly seeing all the problems stacked in front of them.

“Sophie, I…” He trailed off, searching for words. His hands flexed at his sides. “You know how important this is to my family. To… to all of us. The Vackers have always—”

She flinched. Always perfect. Always respected. Always beyond reproach.

“I thought you cared more about me than about what people think,” she whispered.

“I do!” he protested instantly, stepping closer. “I do, Sophie, I just—this is a lot. I need time to—”

That hesitation was the knife. The silence that followed was the twist.

Tears blurred her vision. She shook her head, stepping back before he could touch her.

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

“Sophie, wait—”

She didn’t. She turned and ran, choking on sobs as she shoved past the archway and into the path beyond.

She didn’t go home. She couldn’t.

Her leap crystal brought her to the pastures, where the air smelled faintly of hay and earth, familiar and grounding. But nothing could stop the storm inside her.

“Forkle!” Her voice cracked as she shouted into the emptiness. “Forkle, I know you can hear me! Come out!”

The shimmer of light was immediate, and then he was there, cane in hand, robes heavy in the breeze.

“Sophie?” His tone was cautious.

“This isn’t going to take long,” she said, her arms crossed so tightly they hurt. Tears already streaked her face, and she hated how weak she sounded. “I just need you to stop hiding. Tell me the truth. For once.”

His gaze softened. “The truth is rarely what you think it is, Miss Foster.”

“I don’t care.” Her voice rose, cracking in the middle. “I deserve to know.”

He studied her, and when he finally spoke, it was quiet. “About your genetic parents.”

Her chest squeezed. “You knew.”

“I suspected this would come after your visit to the Matchmakers.” His shoulders sagged with the weight of it. “And I am sorry. But I cannot tell you.”

Her sob broke free, sharp and aching. “You mean you won’t. Don’t stand there and act like it’s impossible when it’s your choice. You let me go in there today with hope. You let me believe Fitz and I had a future, and then you just—” Her breath hitched. “You ruined it.”

Forkle flinched at Fitz’s name, but only for a second. “If that boy cannot—”

“Stop!” she shouted, the word tearing her throat raw. Tears blurred her vision until Forkle was only a shadow. “Don’t you dare talk about him like that. He’s vain and shallow and maybe I should’ve seen it sooner—but I loved him. And you knew I would lose him the second they said unmatchable. You made sure I couldn’t be enough.”

“You are more than enough,” Forkle said firmly.

“Then why did you build me to break?” she whispered. “Why did you make me a project instead of a person?”

He stepped closer, voice low, almost pleading. “Because the world needed you. And yes, sacrifices were made—but you are not broken, Sophie. You are extraordinary.”

Her sobs shook her entire body now. “I didn’t want extraordinary. I just wanted to be loved. And you took even that away.”

Forkle’s eyes glistened in the fading light. “Hate me if you must. But don’t let this destroy you.”

Her laughter was bitter, jagged. “It already has.”

She turned and ran before he could answer, before the tears drowned her completely.

Tears blurred her vision as she tore through the trees, branches clawing at her arms and hair. Fitz’s voice still rang in her ears, begging her to stop. Forkle’s words echoed behind it. Extraordinary. Sacrifice. None of it mattered.

She clutched her leap crystal in trembling fingers, the one place burning in her mind. The shimmer of light carried her away, and then she was stumbling onto the manicured lawns of Candleshade.

Her chest heaved as she sprinted toward the tucked-away door of Keefe’s refuge, pounding her fists against it.

The door swung open to reveal Lord Cassius, his perfectly groomed expression cracking into irritation.

“Miss Foster?” His tone was clipped, accusing. He cast a sharp glance at his son over his shoulder. “What did you do to make her so upset this time?”

Keefe scowled. “What are you—”

But he didn’t get to finish, because Sophie shoved past Cassius with a broken sob, launching herself into Keefe’s arms.

She buried her face in his bare chest, trembling, clinging as though she might shatter if she let go.

“Foster?” Keefe whispered, startled. His hands hovered awkwardly for a heartbeat before settling around her. He glanced at Ro. The ogre-turned-bodyguard lifted her brows, looking from Sophie to Cassius. Then she shrugged, eyes narrowing at Keefe’s father until Cassius sniffed and retreated, muttering under his breath.

“Privacy, Ro,” Keefe said quietly. “Please.”

She didn’t budge. Sophie’s sobs deepened, muffled against his skin, and Keefe’s voice sharpened. “I mean it. Just give us some space.”

The ogre rolled her eyes but pushed off the frame. “Fine. Don’t start breaking anything.”

She shoved the door closed behind her, and Keefe winced at the crash, followed by a distinctly Cassius-shaped howl. He would’ve laughed—normally—but Sophie was still trembling against him, soaking his skin with tears.

“I-I’m sorry,” she hiccuped, pulling back a fraction. Her gaze caught his bare chest for the first time, and her cheeks flared. She turned away, hands tugging at her eyelashes. “I—I didn’t mean to just—” Another sob cut her off. “Fitz and I…” Her words collapsed.

She covered her face with shaking hands. Keefe reached for a shirt, tugged it on quickly, and guided her to sit beside him on the edge of the bed. He touched her shoulder gently, coaxing her chin up with his sleeve. Her eyes were swollen, lashes clumped with tears, faint smudges of eyeliner smeared beneath them. She’d worn makeup today, he realized distantly. She’d tried so hard, put in so much effort for someone who hadn’t deserved it.

Then her emotions slammed into him, raw and unguarded, flooding his Empath senses. Fear. Loss. Anger. And worst of all—heartbreak so sharp it stole his breath. He jerked back with a gasp, clutching his chest.

Sophie froze, guilt flashing across her face.

“Get out!” Keefe snapped toward the door before Ro could comment, his voice sharper than he meant. Silence followed, leaving only Sophie’s ragged breaths.

She sniffled, trying to pull away, but Keefe brushed her damp hair back, his touch light.

“It’s okay, Foster,” he said softly. “You’re okay. Just let it out.”

She broke then, collapsing into his arms with a sob. “Oh, Keefe. I—I—”

The rest drowned in tears, her body shaking against him.

“What happened?” he murmured, stroking her back, his new shirt damp and sticky with her tears. “You can tell me.”

She shuddered, voice cracking.

“I went to the Matchmakers.”

Keefe stiffened. “What?”

“I went for Fitz,” she whispered, breath hitching. “I thought… I thought it was time. But—” Her voice fractured. The tears came again, harder this time. “But I’m unmatchable.”

Chapter Text

The first thing Keefe noticed was that she was wearing eyeliner. That surprised him. Sophie never wore much makeup. It was smudged now, black streaks dragged down her cheeks by tears, and the sight made his chest twist. He wanted to reach out, wipe it away, anything—but he forced himself not to.

Her voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he almost thought he imagined it.
“I’m… unmatchable.”

For a second, he froze. The word didn’t register. Then it landed, heavy and poisonous, and his breath caught like he’d been punched.

“What?”

Her lashes fluttered. She stared at the floorboards, tugging at her eyelashes like she always did when she wanted to disappear. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m sorry.”

“No.” His voice cracked, glass-sharp. He crouched in front of her, desperate to catch her eyes. “No, Foster. Don’t do that. Don’t run. Tell me what you just said.”

Her lips trembled. Tears welled again, sliding hot down her cheeks. And then she said it once more, breaking herself apart with each syllable.

“I’m unmatchable.”

Keefe stumbled back half a step, like the sound had physically shoved him. His fists clenched, then deliberately forced themselves open. Sophie didn’t need his anger—not at her, not near her. She needed him steady.

“That’s what they told you?” His voice came out quieter, almost too even.

Sophie gave the smallest nod. One sharp motion, like saying it again would destroy her.

Keefe dragged his hands down his face. He wanted to punch something, to storm into the Matchmakers’ pristine office and shred their stupid scrolls, scatter their shining pens across the floor. Burn the whole system down. But Sophie was shaking in front of him, and anger wouldn’t fix that.

Instead, he grabbed the crumpled shirt off the end of his bed and shoved it on. The hem caught halfway, twisting, but he yanked it the rest of the way. Respectable enough.

“There,” he muttered. “Now I’m decent. So you can stop apologizing and tell me what happened.”

Sophie’s hands balled tighter in her lap. Her voice cracked as she forced it out. “They said… they can’t give me a Match. Because no one knows who my parents are. Because of… what I am. I’m not—” She broke off with a sob.

“Foster.” He moved closer, gently catching her hands before she buried her face. He squeezed, grounding her. “That doesn’t mean you’re broken. You hear me? It doesn’t mean you’re less. It just means the Matchmakers are self-important idiots who think glittery pens make them powerful.”

Her laugh came out watery, broken. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious,” Keefe pressed. “If their whole system falls apart just because you don’t fit in one of their neat little boxes, then maybe the problem isn’t you. Maybe the problem is their system.”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and glassy. “But Fitz—”

The name was a knife to the ribs.

Keefe swallowed. “What about Fitz?”

Her face crumpled. “I told him. I thought… I thought he’d say it didn’t matter. That he loved me anyway. But he… he hesitated. He started talking about his family. Their reputation. How important the Match is. And then he said he needed time.”

Keefe’s chest burned. He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached.

“Foster…”

She shook her head hard, like speaking would shatter her completely. “I thought he cared about me. More than this. But I guess he didn’t. Not enough.”

Her shoulders curled inward, small and breakable.

Keefe couldn’t stop himself. He reached up, brushing hair from her face, letting his hand linger against her temple. “Listen to me. Fitz not seeing your worth doesn’t erase it. You’re the most important person in the Lost Cities. You’re the most important person to me. And if he can’t see that, then…” His throat closed, words cracking. “That’s on him.”

Her eyes shimmered with tears, locked on his like she was trying to carve his words into her skin, somewhere no one could erase them.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered. “It’s not just Fitz. Everyone will know. Everyone will see me as… wrong. The girl who saved the world but couldn’t even get Matched. It’ll be a scandal.”

Keefe laughed, bitter and sharp. “Good. Let it be a scandal. Let them choke on it. You’ve done more for them than any Councilor, any Vacker, any Matchmaker. And this is their thank you? To call you not good enough?” He shook his head. “They don’t deserve you.”

Her lips trembled. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is,” he said fiercely. “Simple doesn’t mean easy, Foster. But it’s simple. You’re brave. You’re brilliant. You’re stubborn as hell. You care more than anyone I’ve ever met. That’s who you are. Not some stamp on a registry.”

His voice cracked, but he didn’t care.

Her tears spilled faster. “Why are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like you always know what to say. Like you see me even when I don’t want you to. But you can’t use the same words on yourself.”

Keefe’s grin was faint, shaky. “Maybe because I’ve been falling apart most of my life. I know what it looks like… but it’s easier to ignore it in myself.”

Her breath hitched. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Stop apologizing.” His thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. “Please.”

Her lashes fluttered. And then Keefe did the one thing he’d sworn he’d never do. He let himself hope.

“It’s going to be okay, Foster. I’ve got you. Team Foster-Keefe.”

The words hung in the air, fragile, irrevocable.

Her eyes widened. Her breath stuttered.

Keefe wanted to take it back, wanted to laugh it off. But it was too late. And for once, he wasn’t going to run.

Her gaze flicked to his mouth, then back. Her lashes trembled.

And then—before he could even think—she leaned forward.

The kiss was soft, trembling. Instinct. Desperation.

Keefe froze, shock bursting hot in his chest—then kissed her back. Careful. Reverent. Like she was spun from glass and starlight.

Her tears smeared between them, salt and warmth, but he didn’t care.

When she pulled back, she gasped, hands flying to her mouth. “I—”

Keefe panicked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—I shouldn’t have—”

But Sophie shook her head hard. “Don’t. Please don’t apologize.”

And then she kissed him again.

This time harder. Closer. Desperate. Her fists clutched his shirt. Keefe cupped her cheek, thumb tracing the wet line of her jaw. She leaned into him like he was the only solid thing in her universe.

When she finally broke away, breathless, she laughed weakly through her tears. “I don’t even know what I’m doing.”

His grin was crooked, unsteady. “Me neither. But I’m pretty sure I like it.”

Color rushed to her cheeks, mixing with the blotchy red of her crying. She tugged at her lashes again, and Keefe caught her wrist gently, pressing his thumb against her skin. “Stop. You’re perfect as you are.”

Her blush deepened. She glanced down, then back up, lips trembling like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite.

And Keefe—he couldn’t stop himself. He leaned in, pressing the softest kiss against her temple, lingering there.

Her breath hitched. Then, almost shyly, she whispered, “Can we… go back to kissing?”

Keefe laughed, low and incredulous. Pulled back enough to see her blush, brighter than ever.

“Sure,” he said, smirking faintly. “If you love it that much.”

She punched his arm, embarrassed, and he laughed harder. Then she smiled too—fragile, watery—and for the first time that day, he thought maybe the world wasn’t ending.

***

Havenfield’s lanterns glowed soft gold against the dark. Usually, Sophie ached for that warmth after a hard day. Tonight, it looked far away, unreachable. Her heart still thudded from everything—Fitz’s rejection, Keefe’s steady arms, the way her lips still tingled.

She dragged herself up the steps, throat raw, eyes burning.

“Miss Foster.”

Sandor’s squeaky voice cracked the silence.

Sophie flinched. He was waiting at the door, arms crossed, tusks gleaming in the lantern light. His stare was sharp enough to cut, anger vibrating off him.

“You can’t just vanish without a word,” he scolded, voice high-pitched but firm. “Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

Her lips trembled. Normally she’d try to explain, but tonight she was too tired. Too broken.

“I…” Her voice came out hoarse. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I just… needed to go.”

Sandor’s frown deepened. “Needed to go? Sophie, if the Neverseen had—”

“I know!” The words burst sharper than she meant. Guilt slammed into her. She shrank back, whispering, “I know, Sandor.” Her throat closed. The last word cracked.

Silence stretched, filled only by cicadas.

Then she muttered, barely audible, “My boyfriend… dumped me.” Her voice broke. “Because it would make him look bad.”

"What?"

The profanity slipped out, quiet but sharp: “My boyfriend fucking dumped me.”

Her face burned. She never talked like that. But the whisper carried everything she couldn’t say louder.

Sandor blinked, startled. His shoulders eased a little, though his squeaky voice stayed sharp. “Fitz did?”

Her chest tightened at the name. She shook her head fast, hiding her face in her sleeve. “Please. Don’t make me say it again.”

He hesitated. Then stepped aside, letting her slip past. She bolted into her room, shut the door, and sagged against it.

The bed looked like the only place that might hold her. She collapsed face-first, tears soaking through instantly.

The door creaked.

Sandor didn’t knock. His heavy steps thudded closer. The desk chair groaned under his weight.

“Sophie,” he said softly.

She groaned into the pillow. “Please don’t.”

“You scared me,” he admitted. His voice cracked strangely. “You scared all of us.”

Her tears kept falling.

“I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered finally, rolling onto her side. Her face blotchy, lashes damp. “Everything broke at once. The Matchmakers. Fitz. All of it.”

Sandor’s jaw tightened. “Matchmakers? What happened?”

Her throat burned. “They said I’m unmatchable. Because no one knows where I came from. Because of… the way I was made.”

He cursed in Goblin, guttural and sharp. Sophie understood perfectly. For once, it didn’t make her flinch.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Exactly.”

Sandor leaned forward, chair creaking dangerously. “That doesn’t change who you are.”

Her lips trembled. “It changes everything. You know what happens with bad matches. Jolie. Dex’s parents. They did everything right and still got branded failures. And now I don’t even get a match. I’m worse than wrong.”

Tears choked her. “Humans can be cruel and racist and awful. Elves pretend they’re better. But it’s the same. They just smile while they do it. Pretend it’s noble. Pretend it’s for the greater good.”

Sandor’s squeaky reply was firm. “You are not ruined. You are not less. Their cruelty is not your truth.”

Her chest cracked open.

“I thought Fitz cared more,” she whispered. “More about me than about their stupid system. But I guess not. Not enough.”

Her tears blurred everything. She buried her face back into the pillow.

Silence. Only her sobbing filled the room.

Then Sandor rose. Heavy steps crossed the floor. He didn’t touch her—he never crossed that line—but he stood beside the bed, a wall between her and the world.

When he finally spoke, his squeaky voice was softer than she’d ever heard. “You matter, Sophie. More than any registry. Any Match. Any family name. To me. To Grady and Edaline. To the whole world.”

The words hurt—but steadied her. She peeked up at him with swollen eyes.

Her voice was small. “Can we… not tell them yet? Please? About the Matchmakers. About Fitz.”

Sandor studied her. Then gave one sharp nod. “Not until you’re ready. But no more running off. Promise me.”

Her lips wobbled. “Promise.”

He exhaled, tusks glinting in the lamplight. “Good. Then sleep, Miss Foster. Tomorrow we’ll face it together.”

He filled the doorway as he left. The wood clicked shut behind him.

And Sophie, wrapped in silence, finally let exhaustion drag her under.

Chapter Text

Sophie Foster had never hated silence so much in her life.

It wasn’t just the silence of Havenfield at night, when the wind shivered through the trees and the memory of alicorns rustled in the pastures. Nor was it the hushed quiet of the Silver Tower before morning classes, when the whole world seemed to hold its breath. This was the silence between words—between thoughts—when her mind shoved the same phrases at her again and again until they hollowed her out.

Unmatchable.

Not enough.

Broken.

And threaded cruelly through all of it was the memory of Keefe’s lips against hers.

The warmth of his palm on her cheek.

The way he’d kissed her like she wasn’t ruined.

Like she mattered.

How could two truths exist side by side? That she was too much for the Matchmakers and not enough for the people she loved? She hated it.

Hated herself for not being able to stop the spiral. But Keefe— Keefe never let her wallow. She buried her face in her pillow, whispering a silent promise to herself: tomorrow morning, she’d call him on her imparter.

Sandor didn’t leave his post. He stood just outside the half-open door for the entire night.

He’d promised her last night—after her tear-choked plea—that he wouldn’t tell Grady and Edaline. Not yet.

When morning light stretched across the floorboards, Sophie was a lump beneath the blankets, her pillow stained with tears. For a moment, she looked peaceful. Small. Young.

Too young for the storms she carried.

Then her eyes opened, and the illusion shattered.

“Sandor,” she rasped, voice raw. “You’re still here?”

“Where else would I be?” His squeaky pitch came out sharper than intended. He shifted, arms crossed. “After last night, you think I’d leave you unguarded?”

Her gaze dropped, guilt flickering. “I said I was sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t erase danger,” he snapped, tusks flashing. “You left without a note. Without a word. Do you know what could’ve happened if the Neverseen saw you wandering alone?”

She pulled the blanket aside, feet hitting the floor hard. “You don’t have to keep reminding me. I know I messed up.” Sandor’s frown deepened. He wanted to roar, to shake sense into her—but her shoulders trembled, and her eyes stayed glued to the floor like lifting them would break her. “I wasn’t thinking,” she whispered. “Everything was… too much. I needed to breathe.” Sandor huffed, the squeak rising sharp in his throat.

“Then next time, you tell me. We had an agreement, Sophie. No running off. Not without me.” She blushed at that, and her hands twisted in her lap.

“I know. I promise.”

The words were too fast. Too automatic.

Sandor narrowed his eyes. He’d guarded her long enough to recognize when she was holding back. The Matchmakers. Fitz. Keefe. She carried storms inside her, and no amount of “I promise” was going to keep her from doing something reckless.

Before he could press, footsteps padded down the hall.

“Sophie?” Edaline’s warm voice slipped through the door. “Are you awake?” Panic lit Sophie’s eyes.

“She’s fine,” Sandor called, sighing at the pleading look in the young elf’s eyes. The door still creaked open, Edaline’s face peeking in.

Her smile was gentle, but her eyes carried quiet worry. “Breakfast is ready. Grady’s making his famous moonlark eggs.” Sophie forced a nod.

“Okay. I’ll be down in a sec.”

When Edaline withdrew, Sophie sagged. “I think she knows, or at least knows something…”

“Of course she knows,” Sandor muttered. “Edaline is your mother. She will always know when something is wrong.”

Sophie dragged a hand down her face. “I still can’t tell them. Not yet. Please.”

Sandor’s tusks gleamed in the light. He wanted to argue. Wanted to demand she let her family in. But he’d already promised. And her eyes—tired, pleading—were begging again.

“Fine,” he said. “But you eat something. And you don’t go anywhere alone. Not today. Especially if it involves Mr. Sencen. You two don’t have the best track record.” She bit her lip, then nodded.

So Sandor shadowed her downstairs, looming over her chair while she forced herself through breakfast. He watched her fake smiles at Edaline’s gentle questions, watched Grady study her with worried eyes she refused to meet. She was still shaken, but it seemed like that boy had helped her. If he had to chaperone two reckless 18-year-olds to help her, then so be it.

It had been a week since the first kiss.

Sophie had only kissed him once more since then—mostly because Sandor had grounded her after she’d ditched him in the forest after... Fitz. Keefe still didn’t know what exactly existed between himself and Sophie, but for once in his life, he knew better than to rush ahead blindly..

So instead he stole whatever time he could with Foster. Even if it meant letting her dig through every twisted corner of his head. Right now though, it was increasingly difficult not to want to just stop pretending he liked poking around his own damn head with her.

Keefe knew he was supposed to be focusing.

That was the whole point of this exercise: sit still while Foster rooted through his memories, see if his darling mother had tucked away anything ugly he couldn’t reach on his own.

Fun times. Exactly what every guy dreamed of—lying back while the girl he was head-over-idiotic-heels for rifled through his brain like it was a garbage bin, searching for nasty little bombs Lady Gisela might’ve hidden.

Ro had somehow convinced Sandor to give them space, though the goblin still burst in every hour to make sure Keefe wasn’t pulling anything. Ro, of course, looked disappointed every time they weren’t caught kissing. Keefe ignored her suggestive gestures, though Sophie’s cheeks always went pink. It was cute.

Still, Sophie hadn’t left him completely without a tether. She held his hand—gloved this time, to soften the distraction of her emotions—and anchored him with her other palm against his temple.

She was good at this. Careful. Steady. Always checking with those big brown eyes to make sure he was okay. She never peeked at the gold-wrapped boxes in his head, no matter how curious she looked.

And yet, he couldn’t stay focused.

No matter how many times she whispered relax, no matter how gently she reminded him you’ve got this, his thoughts scattered. Because—

Fitz Vacker existed.

Fitz. Mother. Fucking. Vacker.

His so-called best friend.

His so-called best friend. His brother. The bastard Keefe had stepped aside for—had let have the first real shot with Sophie, because apparently Keefe Sencen was noble like that. It definitely had nothing to do with the fact he believed he was unworthy of her. None at all.

It was because Fitz meant something to her.

And what had Fitz done with it? Tossed her aside. Dropped her the second the Match got complicated.

And the worst part? Sophie had believed Fitz when he’d made her think she wasn’t enough.

The thought roared so loud through his head that he didn’t realize he was projecting until Sophie winced.

Her hand faltered against his temple. “Please stop thinking about that.”

Her voice was small, and he felt her grimace at the thought.

Shit.

Keefe’s eyes flew open. Guilt clawed through him. “Sorry, Foster. You just… make my brain messy.”

He tried for a grin, but it landed crooked—more apology than charm.

And because lying still under her scrutiny was impossible, he flopped backward across his bed with a groan, arms spread like a tragic starfish.

“You ever wish you could just delete thoughts?” he asked the ceiling. “Like—poof. Gone. No more torture. Just… silence.”

For a beat, only Sophie’s breathing filled the room. Then paper rustled as she set Forkle’s endless notes aside—scribbles about memory mechanics that had helped approximately zero times so far.

“All the time,” she whispered.

Keefe turned his head toward her. She sat on the edge of his bed, knees pulled to her chest, looking like she might fold in on herself. Her bun had fallen apart, loose strands framing her face, exhaustion etched under her eyes. She looked like she was carrying the world again.

And still—she was here with him.

He hadn't seen her this tired since she was in that full body cast.

“I bet we could compete for the worst fucked-up secrets hidden in our mind,” he muttered, a dark smirk tugging at his lips.

Her eyes darted up to his, quick as a spark, then down again.

“I can't tell what is worse, that this is what brings out obviously ur competitive streak.” She sighed. "Or that fact that I don't know who would win."

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. I don’t want to tell you that the world’s fucked, my ex is fucked, my head’s fucked, my memories and life are fucked beyond any recognition, the elves’ whole glittery view of love is fucked, I can’t tell my friends that it’s fucked, and Forkle refuses to tell me how to unfuck it.”

Keefe froze.

Those words had come from Sophie Foster.

Sweet, stubborn, mostly law-abiding Sophie Foster—who scolded him for swearing, who blushed when Dex accidentally said “butt” too loud—just swore without blushing.

For a second, he thought he’d imagined it.

Then his jaw unhinged. “Foster! Was that—did you just curse?”

Her face went crimson. “I—well—you said it first!”

“Not the point.” He bolted upright, pointing a dramatic finger at her like he’d caught her stealing cookies. “This is groundbreaking. Cause for a Team Foster-Keefe celebration! Sophie Foster, mostly rule-abiding, always-perfect—at least to me—Sophie Foster, corrupted by yours truly.”

She buried her face in her hands. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah, but admit it—you love it.” His grin stretched wide, reckless and real this time.

And then—miracle of miracles—her lips twitched. A small smile slipped through, fragile but there.

It seemed his attempt to cheer her up was helping.

Keefe’s chest tightened, something warm flickering through the storm.

Without thinking, he reached out, brushing his fingers over hers. She didn’t flinch. She let him take her hand.

Just that simple act—her choosing to stay—meant more than he could put into words.

He held on, thumb tracing idle circles against her skin.

She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing his, and for once, he didn’t ruin it with a joke. Didn’t make it about Fitz. Didn’t make it about his mother. Just breathed her in—vanilla and something sharp, like adrenaline—and let himself feel steady.

The silence stretched. Soft. Safe.

Until he broke it. Because of course he did.

“Slumber party?” he whispered, voice pitched with mock innocence.

Her heart gave her away—he could feel it in the little hitch of her breath, in the way her fingers twitched in his.

For half a second, he thought she’d say yes. He pictured it: staying up all night, eating candy, mocking Forkle’s notes, maybe kissing until sunrise. Her laughter in the dark. Her hand in his.

But Sophie Foster was still Sophie Foster.

“Grady will want me back,” she said softly.

Keefe raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. Her tone was all nerves and excuses, not conviction.

But he didn’t argue. He never wanted to push her.

“So back to rooting through my mind in search of possible abuse that has been erased from my mind?”

“Jesus, Keefe, don’t say it like that.”

“Who—”

“Human thing. No,” she sighed at his confused expression. “Do not ask. You need to focus.”

“Fine.”

He sat back and let her resume her work.

She reached for Forkle’s notes again, but before either of them could speak, Sandor shoved the door open.

The goblin’s eyes narrowed at the sight of their joined hands. Ro leaned in over his shoulder, smirking and making some obscene gesture that made Sophie’s face combust.

“Grady wants you back,” Sandor squeaked, suspicion dripping from every syllable.

Keefe brushed his thumb over Sophie’s hand once more before letting go. “See you later, Foster.”

“Okay,” she said softly.

Sandor gave them one last glare before retreating. Ro winked. Sophie groaned.

She leaned into Keefe’s shoulder for the briefest second, her whisper brushing the air between them. “If I get caught, Sandor will kill you. And Grady will lock me up away from boys and the Neverseen for the rest of eternity.”

Keefe grinned, unable to stop himself. “You’re actually considering sneaking out on Gigantor? Foster, you really are amazing.”

Her laugh was nervous, but real.

“I love you. Your match status doesn’t mean shit to me,” he called before she left the doorway. "No matter what you choose to do, I'm with you Foster. I always will."

And when she smiled, he knew she believed it too.

When she finally left, he let himself fall back against the bed, grinning at the ceiling.

Fuck, this girl would kill him.

She really didn’t know what made her do it.

Maybe it was the look on his face when she said goodbye, like he wasn’t ready to let her go. Maybe it was the way her stomach had been fluttering all night, refusing to calm down.

But after a few hours of tossing and waiting for Sandor to leave, Sophie found herself deciding to go. She hurriedly wrote a note about the Black Swan and Silveny needing attention and light leaped to the Shores of Solace.

Her heart pounded so loud she swore Ro could hear it from the hall. Thankfully, Cassius was gone on a Black Swan mission—which Sophie was thankful for despite her misgivings about him joining the organization. That at least meant less drama if she showed up in the middle of the night with a stuffed gulon.

However, the ogre princess guarding the door was going to kill her with embarrassment and innuendo before she reached Keefe’s room.

Ro smirked at her the second she showed up, noting her attempt to do… something with herself.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“I…” Sophie shrugged helplessly.

“I’m still making sure you don’t run off or plot to kill Cassius without me,” Ro said, leaning back against the wall, “but I want to see how he reacts to this.” She waved a clawed hand at Sophie’s clothes and the obvious present. Sophie blushed and tugged an eyelash before she tired to move foward but the ogre stopped her again.

“But,” Ro lifted a threatening finger, “if I get blamed for letting this happen, you both get me as a serious chaperone for a month. I’m fine as long as you’re not too loud, but if you knuckleheads get me in trouble with that prissy goblin of yours, I will make your little romance living hell.”

Sophie went red with embarrassment and frantically nodded her agreement.

Ro grinned ferally and waved her inside. “Have fun!” she called after her, cackling.

Sophie wanted to sink into the floor as she slipped into Keefe’s room.

When Keefe looked up, startled, he immediately tried to play it cool. “Back already, Foster? Miss me that much?”

She rolled her eyes, cheeks blazing. “I… forgot something.”

He smirked. “Oh? And what did you forget?”

Her voice went tiny. “That I wanted to see your face when I gave you this.”

Keefe looked down—and instantly short-circuited. He blinked. Then blinked again. First at the gulon in her hands, then back at her.

Because Sophie Foster—shy, cardigan-loving Sophie Foster—was standing there in a crop top and fuzzy pajama bottoms covered in cartoon elephants, which was fucking adorable.

He choked on a laugh. “I didn’t know you wore human clothes to bed.”

Her smile was shy, nervous, almost apologetic. She tugged on her lashes and avoided his gaze. “I do for you.”

He forgot how to breathe. When the hell had she gotten this side to her? Was she always like this? No. Little Miss Oblivious was doing this for him, and of course was oblivious to what it meant to him.

“What do you usually wear?” he asked before his brain could stop his mouth.

Sophie squirmed, her face molten as she tugged at the hem of her top. “I, uh… nothing much, um just a shirt usually.”

Keefe nearly died on the spot. His grin turned even more mischievous. “Really? I’d love to see that sometime.”

Her whole face had no more shades of red to become, and heat spread down her neck. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Um… just… I’m not ready to do… more yet.”

Keefe instantly sobered up. “Oh, gods, Foster, I didn’t mean to push you—”

“Keefe, it’s okay. Just… slumber party only tonight, okay?”

That plea in her voice nearly broke him.

“Um, yeah. Yeah, okay. I got it.”

Sophie smiled, just barely pink now. She grabbed a blanket from his bed and wrapped it around herself before sitting on the window seat overlooking the beach. He sat down next to her and held her hand.

“Foster…” He tried so hard not to let her emotions distract him.

“Yeah?” she whispered, glancing away nervously.

“Even if you’re unmatchable, I don’t want to force you to never tell anyone about us. I want to be able to take you to the park, hold hands. Hell, I just… I’ve loved you since the moment you first blushed at me. I want people to know.”

She stared at him. For a second he thought he’d crossed another boundary accidentally. But then her joy hit him—and so did her tackle-kiss. He held her close until she pulled away.

“You don’t care that it will be worse than a bad match?”

“Foster, I’ve never cared about anything except proving myself to you.”

“I—I…” She smiled as tears welled in her eyes. “That’s the best news I’ve had all week.”

“We should take it slow. I don’t need you to tell everyone about us. I just… I want to spend time with you that isn’t running from the Neverseen or the Council or doing chores for the Swan and Forkle. Just you. Even if it means actually studying or helping you with your abilities or just talking and—am I rambling?”

“No, no. It’s perfect. I want… I want you to be my boyfriend. We start small. I don’t want everyone to know yet, but…” She brushed her hair back shyly. “I love you.”

“To whatever end I will follow you, milady.”

She huffed good-naturedly as he kissed her hand.

“Keefe, you’re an idiot.”

“Now, now, Foster. Who’s the bigger idiot—the idiot, or the one willingly dating the idiot?”

She snorted at his terrible joke, face pink.

“Just kiss me already,” she muttered.

He chuckled at her impatience and obeyed.