This is a mistake.

Not a small one either. Not a “text him back at 2 am and pretend it didn’t happen” kind of mistake.

No—this is a rewrite-your-life, destabilize-your-soul, question-every-choice-you’ve-made kind of mistake.

And the worst part?

I knew it the second I saw him.

Erik.

Standing there, like restraint learned how to wear a suit and get expensive about it.

Tall. Too tall. Broad shoulders like he personally offended gravity. That quiet, dangerous stillness that makes people think he’s calm when really he’s calculating how much of himself he’s allowed to show.

And those eyes—

God.

Those green eyes.

Electric. Alive. Like they don’t just look at you—they recognize you.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

Also rude.

Also… sexy af.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Love this for me.”

Because here’s the truth, no one writes into the prophecy:

You can marry a god.

You can survive a war.

You can become something cosmic and untouchable and powerful enough to terrify entire species—

—and still lose all your composure because one man looks at you like you’re not a role.

Just you.

My wolf.

My problem.

My almost.

I shouldn’t be standing this close.

That’s the first rule I’m breaking.

The second?

I haven’t walked away yet.

“Tell me something,” Erik says, voice low, controlled, like he’s holding something back with both hands. “Why is it every time we try to be responsible people, the universe treats it like a suggestion?”

I almost laugh.

Almost.

Because that’s exactly how this feels.

Like, responsibility is optional.

Like consequences are watching from a distance, shaking their heads.

“Because we were never built for simple,” I say.

And I mean it.

But also—

I remember simplicity.

And that’s the problem.

Because Erik doesn’t let it go.

Of course, he doesn’t.

“You. Me. New York.”

Oh no.

No, no, no—we are not doing this.

“Don’t—”

Too late.

“Engaged,” he continues, stepping closer, voice picking up heat like he’s been waiting to say this out loud. “You were going to be a surgeon. I was going to be a lawyer with too many suits and not enough sleep.”

I inhale sharply.

Because now I see it.

Not memory.

Not nostalgia.

A whole life. A life I wanted. A life I desired. 

Apartment with terrible lighting. Coffee that tasted like survival. Karma crawling around like she owned the place, growing up in something that felt like home instead of a strategy.

It hits harder than anything Mehen has ever said to me.

And that’s saying something.

“That life—” I start.

“—was real,” Erik cuts in.

I shake my head.

“It wasn’t enough.”

The words leave my mouth before I can filter them.

And immediately—

I regret them.

Because I see it.

That flicker in his eyes.

Not anger.

Not even hurt.

Just… something quieter.

Worse.

“Not enough?” he repeats.

And now I sound like a villain in my own love story.

“It was safe,” I say, trying to recover.

Wrong answer.

Every time.

“God forbid you get a peaceful life,” he mutters.

I want to laugh.

I want to cry.

I want to shake him and kiss him at the same time, which feels like a personality flaw I should probably address.

“Don’t reduce what we had,” I say.

“I’m not,” he shoots back. “I’m trying to understand how it wasn’t enough.”

Because I wanted more.

Because I always want more.

Because I am apparently a moth with a death wish for flames that talk back.

I turn to leave.

Because leaving is what smart people do.

Erik is not letting me be smart tonight.

His hand catches my wrist.

And just like that—

Everything stops.

It’s not rough.

Not controlling.

Just… there.

Firm.

Warm.

Real.

My entire body goes, oh no.

Because I remember this.

I remember him.

Not the suit.

Not the polished version.

This.

The man who would stand between me and anything that threatened me without asking if I needed it.

The man who loved me like it wasn’t optional.

The man who was obsessed with me in the quietest, most devastating way.

“You think I closed you?” I ask.

“You married him,” he says.

Fair.

Painfully fair.

“I married a war,” I correct.

“And what was I?”

“Peace.”

And I mean it.

I mean it so much it hurts.

Because peace doesn’t call to me.

Peace doesn’t challenge me.

Peace doesn’t make me feel like I’m standing on the edge of something irreversible.

Peace doesn’t feel like this.

And this—

This is everything.

I step closer.

Because apparently, I make excellent decisions under pressure.

His hand doesn’t let go.

Good.

Bad.

Terrible.

“Erik…” I whisper.

He looks at me like he’s about to ruin both of us.

And then he does.

He kisses me.

No warning.

No patience.

No god-level restraint.

Just Erik.

And it’s—

God.

It’s familiar.

It’s warm.

It’s home.

And that’s the worst part.

Because I kiss him back.

Of course I do.

I’m not even pretending anymore.

My hands find him like they remember where they belong.

His arms pull me in like I never left.

And for one second—

just one—

Everything makes sense again.

No Mehen.

No prophecy.

No war.

Just us.

Simple.

Happy.

Enough.

And that’s when I panic.

Because it’s not simple anymore.

It can’t be.

I pull back.

Breathing uneven.

Hands still on him like I don’t trust myself to let go.

“No,” I whisper.

He looks wrecked.

Which is deeply unfair, because I am also wrecked.

“I know,” he says.

And somehow that makes it worse.

Because he knows.

He knows we can’t.

He knows we won’t.

And he did it anyway.

“Why?” I ask.

And I don’t even know what I’m asking.

Why now?

Why him?

Why does it still feel like this?

“Because he stole you with a lie,” Erik says.

And just like that—

I stop.

Completely.

I don’t turn.

Because if I turn—

I might not leave.

But I feel it.

That truth lands somewhere I don’t want to examine.

Wtf does this man do to me?

 I  shiver.

Damn him.

“Stop,” I say.

But my voice doesn’t have authority anymore.

He keeps going.

“We were real.”

I know.

“We were simple.”

I know.

“And we were happy.”

I—

I look back.

And that’s the mistake.

Because the way he’s looking at me—

Like I’m still his.

Like I always was.

Like I always will be.

That old what-if hits me like a wave.

And for a second—

I want it.

All of it.

The life.

The peace.

The version of me that didn’t choose chaos dressed like destiny.

“It’s not that simple anymore,” I say.

And it sounds like an excuse.

Erik nods.

Sharp.

Controlled.

Like he’s locking something away.

“But don’t rewrite what we had,” he says.

And I hate him a little for that.

Because he’s right.

And then—

He leaves.

Fast.

Before we both forget how to stop.

And I stand there—

still.

Breathing.

Burning.

Knowing exactly what I just chose not to choose.

And hating how much I still want it anyway.