"Hey Clive," Jill hugged him from behind.

  Clive was painting out on the balcony, trying to capture the full moon. His brush paused mid-stroke, a wash of pale titanium white suspended above the canvas.

  "Hey." He set the brush down on his palette and leaned back into her embrace. She was warm against his back, providing him relief from the cold, windy night.

  "Still working?" Her breath tickled his ear. "It's past midnight."

  "Almost done." He picked up the brush again, studying the canvas. The moon hung there, rendered in layers of white and the faintest hint of blue. "The light's perfect tonight. I can't waste it."

  "Mm." She didn't sound convinced, but she didn't let go either. Her arms tightened around his waist. "You said that three hours ago."

  "Did I?" He mixed more white with a touch of yellow ochre, trying to capture that subtle warmth moonlight carried. "Sorry."

  "You're not sorry," she teased. She shifted, pressing her cheek against his. "Show me what you're seeing."

  He tilted his head toward the real moon, hanging fat and luminous above the LA skyline. "See how it's not pure white? There's warmth in it. And the glow, it's not uniform. The edges are softer, more diffuse."

  "I see a bright circle." Jill laughed softly. "That's the difference between us. You see a thousand things I can't."

  "You could. If you looked long enough."

  "I'd rather look at you looking at it." She kissed the corner of his jaw. "That's more interesting."

  Clive turned his head, catching her lips properly. The kiss was soft. She tasted like the peppermint tea she'd been drinking. When they broke apart, she was smiling.

  "Your face is doing that thing," she said.

  "What thing?"

  "The thing where you're already mentally cataloging how you'd paint this moment." She poked his cheek. "I can see it. Your artist brain never shuts off, does it?"

  He opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped. She was right. He'd been thinking about how the moonlight caught in her hair, and the way her eyes reflected it like still water. "Sorry."

  "Still not sorry." She rested her chin on his shoulder again, looking at the canvas. "But that's okay. I knew what I was getting into."

  They stood like that for a while, her arms around him, the night air cool against their skin. A siren wailed somewhere in the distance. The city hummed its endless song.

  "Are you happy?" Jill asked suddenly. Her voice was quiet, almost lost in the ambient noise.

  "Right now? Yeah. I am."

  "Not just right now. Generally. With your life. With us."

  Something in her tone made him turn around in her arms to face her properly. The moonlight painted half her face silver, leaving the other half in shadow. She looked worried.

  "Jill, what's wrong?"

  "Nothing's wrong. I'm just asking." But her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Sometimes I feel like I'm interrupting. Like I'm pulling you away from what you really want to be doing."

  "That's not—" He cupped her face in his paint-stained hands. "You're not interrupting anything."

  "Your hands are cold." She leaned into his touch anyway. "And you have blue on your thumb."

  "Do I?" He glanced down. She was right. "Sorry."

  "Stop apologizing." She caught his hands, held them between her own. "I like your paint-stained fingers. I like that you forget to eat when you're working. I like watching you get lost in something."

  "Then what's this about?"

  She was quiet for a moment, her thumbs tracing circles on his palms. "Sometimes, I wonder whether it's time to move on.”

  “Move on from?”

  “This painting thing isn’t really working. We're behind on rent again.”

  "I know. I'll figure something out." He pulled his hands away, turning back toward the canvas. "Maybe I could pick up some freelance work. Design stuff. Just temporarily."

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Or maybe..." She trailed off.

  He looked over his shoulder. "Or maybe what?"

  "Nothing." She shook her head. "Forget it."

  "Jill."

  "It's not even about the money." She wrapped her arms around herself. "Not really. I just—sometimes when you're painting, it's like I'm not even here. Like nothing else exists."

  "That's not true."

  "Isn't it?" She met his eyes. "How many times have I come home to find you exactly where I left you, like time stopped for you?"

  He didn't have an answer.

  Jill stared at the ground before looking up at Clive again. There was something fragile in her expression. "Promise me something."

  "Anything."

  "Don't get so lost you can't find your way back. To me."

  He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. She fit against him perfectly, her head tucked under his chin. "I won't. I promise."

  She held him tighter. "Liar."

  "Jill—"

  "It's okay." Her voice was muffled against his chest. "I know you mean it. Right now, you mean it. That's enough."

  They swayed slightly, moving to music only they could hear. Above them, the moon watched. Patient and distant and eternal.

  "Dance with me," Jill said.

  "There's no music."

  "Make some up."

  So he did. He hummed something melodic while they turned in slow circles on the balcony. Her hair smelled like jasmine shampoo. His paint was definitely getting on her shirt. Neither of them cared.

  "I love you," she whispered.

  "I love you too."

  The moon bore witness to the lie and the truth tangled up together. Clive held her tight, wishing that the moment would last forever.

  "Clive—Clive!"

  The voice shattered the dream like glass.

  He was falling, the balcony dissolving beneath his feet. Jill's warmth vanished. The city lights blurred and scattered. Everything fragmented into pieces he couldn't hold onto.

  "—wake up! Come on, stay with me—"

  Pain crashed over him in waves. His chest burned. Each breath felt like inhaling broken glass. The soft jasmine smell of Jill's hair became smoke and blood and scorched earth.

  "Clive!"

  Someone was shaking his shoulder. Rough hands, nothing like Jill's gentle touch.

  His eyes cracked open. The moonlit Los Angeles skyline was replaced with darkness, stars and a huge Azure shape leaning over him, tongue extended.

  Azura's rough tongue dragged across his face, then down to the gaping wound in his chest. The dragon's saliva stung, but the bleeding slowed where she licked.

  "Finally." Miranda said. The dragon rider knelt beside him. "Thought we'd lost you there."

  Clive tried to speak. His throat was raw. He managed a weak cough instead.

  "Don't try to talk." Lucia appeared on his other side, her hands glowing faintly as she pressed something—bandages?—against his chest. "You've got a hole the size of my fist through your sternum. Miracle you're breathing at all."

  The memory hit him.

  Jill's arms around him. The moonlight blade. Her voice whispering we're going home now as she killed him.

  "Jill—" His voice cracked. "Where—"

  "The Moon Mother?" Guma’s expression was grim. "Gone. She took off into the sky right after. Haven't seen her since."

  Clive turned his head, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused. Around him, moss-covered stones still glowed faintly with residual moonlight. Scorch marks from Lucia's chemical fire scarred the ground, while his blood painted a dark trail marking where they'd dragged him away from her.

  Away from Jill. He had to go after her. Had to—

  Clive braced his hands against the ground and tried to push himself up. His arms gave way immediately and he collapsed back down with a choked gasp.

  "Clive, don't—" Lucia's hands pressed against his shoulders. "You'll tear yourself open again."

  "Jill—" His voice came out weak, barely above a whisper. "She's—I have to—"

  "You can't even sit up." Lucia's face appeared above him, streaked with soot and tears she'd tried to wipe away. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "Please. Just rest."

  "But she's—"

  "Gone." Lucia's voice cracked. "She's gone, Clive. And you're dying. So please, just... stop."

  He wanted to argue. To push her away and chase after that pillar of moonlight that had disappeared into the sky. But his body wouldn't cooperate. Every breath felt like drowning, every limb felt like lead.

  The sound of footsteps approached.

  "Make way!" someone called out. "The Prince is coming through!"

  Clive tilted his head. Through the haze of pain, he saw Prince Sion emerging from the battle-scarred ruins. The young prince was covered in injuries—his armor dented, his face smeared with blood and dirt. He limped slightly, favoring his left leg, but his bearing remained upright.

  Beside him walked the Grand General, but Clive barely recognized him.

  He wore plate and mail that seemed wrought from solid light. The blade in his hand matched it, a longsword of pure luminescence that hummed with divine power. He looked like something out of legend. A warrior of Light itself.

  "Your Highness." Guma and several other dragon riders dropped to one knee, fists pressed to their chests.

  Sion waved them up tiredly. "Please. Save the formality." He looked around at the assembled riders, his gaze lingering on each injured face. "You all fought magnificently. If victory was achieved today, it was thanks to your courage."

  "With respect, Your Highness, we'd be dead without you." Guma straightened, gesturing to the scorched battlefield behind them. "That Black Knight, he would have slaughtered us all."

  The Grand General looked at Sion. "You did a remarkable job holding off the Black Knight. Your father would be proud."

  Sion shook his head. "The black knight was strong. Extremely so. I survived, but if you hadn’t arrived, it would only be a matter of time until I lost." His eyes found Clive on the ground, and his expression shifted to worry. "The pictomancer—how is he?"

  "Alive," Miranda answered. "Barely. The Moon Mother's blade went clean through his chest. By all rights, he should be dead."

  Clive tried to respond. To reassure everyone that he was ok. That they should chase after Jill instead. His lips moved, but no sound came out. The world was starting to blur again.

  "Don't speak." Lucia's hand found his, squeezing gently. "Save your strength."

  "We need to get him back to camp," the Grand General said. "He won't last much longer out here."

  "Agreed." Sion looked to the dragon riders. "Guma. Get him to safety. "

  "Already on it, Your Highness." Guma gestured to his dragon, where a makeshift stretcher was being fitted. "I only hope he'll survive the flight."

  "He will." Lucia's voice was fierce. "He has to."

  The darkness was creeping back in, pulling him down into its depths.

  The last thing he heard before unconsciousness claimed him was Lucia's voice.

  "Don't you dare die on me, Clive. Not like this.

  He promised not to get lost. She promised it was okay that he would. The moon kept both promises.

  — Goddess of Stories and Theatregoing