lucius ౨ৎ

“Yeah,” you pushed off the rack, closing the space between you. “All tense and scowly. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve always been scowly, but this is different.”

“I’m not—”

You stepped closer, close enough that Alec could feel the warmth radiating off you. His jaw tightened, and you caught the way his Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “You’re a terrible liar, Lightwood.” Your voice softened. “So tell me—what’s going on?”

He glanced at you then, finally, and the truth cracked through his walls. His gaze darted to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you knew. Without thinking twice, you reached up, cupped his jaw, and pressed your lips against his.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t planned. It was raw, desperate, and startlingly real. Alec froze for half a second before his hand fisted in the back of your shirt, pulling you in closer.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide, his breath shaky. “You—” he started, voice rough. “You shouldn’t have—Izzy—”

“Izzy and I aren’t a thing,” you interrupted. “We never were. She’s my friend, Alec. Always has been. But you…” you smirked softly, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You look at me like I’m more than that. Like I’m everything.”

Alec’s breath caught. Because you were right.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Izzy. She didn’t love you, not like that, but Alec still felt the weight of betrayal pressing down on his chest. She’d trusted him to be her brother, her anchor. And here he was, kissing the person she's sharing her nights with.

That evening, you found yourself at Magnus' door, shoulders heavy with things you hadn’t said aloud. “Darling,” Magnus said with his usual flourish, but stopped short at your expression. “Tell me which person to smite.”

You managed a weak smile. “Do you have a few minutes?”

Magnus, despite the glitter and sarcasm, could be serious when needed. He listened. Patiently. A glass of something spiced and golden placed in your hand while you spoke—about years of hiding, about overheard conversations, about Alec always almost choosing you but never really doing it.

When you finished, Magnus studied you for a beat, swirling his glass in one hand. “He hasn’t even mentioned you to them?”

You shook your head.

“Darling, I’m offended for you.”

“It’s not that he doesn’t care,” you said quickly. “He does. I know he does. I just…I feel like a ghost. Like I only exist when the lights are off and his parents are far away.”

Magnus’s cat-eyes soften. “I’ve seen many Nephilim go through that path: choosing convenience over someone they love. It starts with silence. Then comes the excuses. And before you know it, you’re a footnote in their glory.” His eyes sparkled—not with magic, but something sharper. “You are no one’s footnote.”

You looked down at your drink, the amber liquid catching lamplight like it might hold an answer. “I kept waiting for the moment he’d say something. Anything. I don't need fireworks or a dramatic reveal—I just want to exist in his world the way he lives in mine.”

Magnus rose gracefully and crossed to you, placing one bejeweled hand over yours. “You’re asking for dignity, not decoration. That’s not too much.” He tilted his head, lips curving into the beginnings of an idea. “What you need,” he murmured, “is a touch of theatre.”

You blinked. “Magnus—”

“No, no—hear me out. Alexander is terrified of losing control, but jealousy? That, my dear, is instinct. It bypasses pride. Bypasses fear.” He grinned with dazzling charm. “Let’s remind him how many others see your worth.”

You eyed him warily. “So what, you’re going to pretend to seduce me?”

“Oh, I won’t pretend, darling. I’ll simply act as if I see you the way he should. Head over heels. Devoted. Hands-on.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer I summon a minor chaos demon to break his door instead.”

You snorted into your drink. “This sounds petty.”

“It is petty,” Magnus agreed cheerfully. “It’s also effective.”

You hesitated, thinking of Alec’s tense smiles, his glance over his shoulder before touching your hand in the shadows. You thought of Lydia Branwell arriving soon. A marriage alliance. A clean, bloodline-approved future.

And then you thought of how you hadn’t been invited to that conversation.

You set your glass down. “Fine. But I’m not throwing myself at you.”

Magnus smirked. “Perish the thought. You’ll be a vision of effortless charm. I’ll do the throwing.”

True to form, Magnus went big.

When the Institute had a welcoming party for Lydia Branwell, you invited Magnus as your plus one—a last-minute addition to the guest list that had Maryse raising a finely plucked brow and muttering something about protocol. But by the time Magnus stepped through the main doors in a coat of enchanted obsidian that shimmered like liquid night, no one dared question his presence.

He was breathtaking.

You barely had time to blink before Magnus’s arm slid around your waist, his rings cool through the fabric of your suit. “Smile, darling,” he whispered, voice honey-slick and wicked. The ballroom was carved from old stone and older expectations. Nephilim mingled in polished armor, Lydia stood tall near the head table, all sharp poise and golden runes, and Alec—he stood beside her, form stiff as his eyes watched you and Magnus across the room.

“I could spin you around the dance floor,” Magnus murmured, fingers brushing your collarbone in mock affection, “or I could just keep you right here and murmur scandal into your ear. Which do you prefer?”

“That depends,” you replied, voice low. “How much do you want to make him sweat?”

Magnus grinned like the cat who swallowed the canary—and then wore the feathers as a brooch. He leaned in close, lips nearly brushing your ear. “You’re positively devilish when you’re heartbroken.”

A few more steps. Alec’s gaze burned now, pinned to where Magnus’s hand traced lazy, lingering shapes at your hip. Isabelle had caught on, her eyes darting between you and her brother and Jace’s brows lifted, as if he'd just realized the plot twist of the evening.

You and Magnus stopped near the drinks table, and he, ever the dramatist, conjured two flutes of champagne with a snap of his fingers. The magic cracked softly in the air—harmless, elegant, noticed.

Alec moved.

Fast.

He all but stormed across the room, his face a sculpted mask of calm only someone who knew him could see right through. Magnus saw it too—his smile widened just enough to expose the trap Alec was marching into. “A word.”

“Of course,” Magnus replied, offering him an exaggerated bow. “Though you’ll have to be specific. Who do you want a word with?”

Alec’s eyes flicked to you, jaw tense. “Him.”

Magnus glanced your way, then to Alec, then back again. “Oh dear. Have I made a mess?” he asked lightly, before pressing a swift, not-quite-innocent kiss to your cheek. “Be gentle with him, Alexander. He’s rather fond of you.”

Alec didn’t even respond. His hand closed gently—but firmly—around your wrist, guiding you toward the archway that led to a quieter hall. You followed.

As if you had a choice.

The moment you were out of sight, Alec rounded on you, tension brimming in every line of his body. “What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, voice low but furious.

You didn’t flinch. “Enjoying the party. Magnus makes excellent company when I can't bring my secret boyfriend as my plus one,” you replied, arms folding. “Especially when their mother’s matchmaking them with Lydia Branwell.”

His expression twisted. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“No,” you said quietly. “But you didn’t stop it either.”

Alec looked away. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is,” you shot back. “Either I’m someone you’re proud to stand next to or I’m someone you kiss in the dark and hope your parents never find out about. And I’m done pretending one is enough.”

Silence stretched. Alec opened his mouth, then shut it, and for the first time, he looked afraid. Not of you—but of what this meant.

“I saw you,” he said suddenly. “The way he looked at you. Touched you. And all I could think was—he knows what he has. He gets to show it.” Alec’s voice cracked, raw and unguarded. “I want that too. I want that with you.”

You inhaled slowly, heart thrumming. “Then take it.”

Alec stepped forward and, in a rare moment of impulsive honesty, cupped your face with both hands and kissed you. Hard. Fierce. Desperate. As if he could rewrite the years of silence with just this one act. And when you pulled back, the door creaked—Isabelle stood there, arms crossed, lips twitching upward.

“Took you long enough,” she said, then tossed a wink your way. “Also, Magnus won the pool. I owe him fifty bucks.”