The waves whispered just beyond the dunes.
Not loud, not crashing—just soft murmurs against the shore, like the sea itself was dreaming.
The wind smelled like salt and wildflowers, like something old and clean. I sat barefoot in the sand, a book closed and forgotten beside me, fingers buried into warm grains that slipped between them like time.
Our house stood just a few meters behind me—white stone and sea-blue windows, the porch draped in flowering ivy and towels left out to dry. The breeze carried faint laughter through the open doors.
I leaned back on my palms and looked up.
The sky was perfect.
No stormclouds. Just that endless stretch of blue, the kind you could drown in and not mind at all.
A sudden splash of water made me blink—
—and then Claire sprinted past me, shrieking.
"DIANA! That was cheating!"
"You said no rules!" Diana's voice came behind her, amused and unbothered. "And I said I play to win."
Claire whirled around with a ball of wind forming in her palm, her soaked tank top clinging to her skin. "You blasted me into the sea."
"You dodged. Poorly."
Camille strolled into view next, holding a conjured parasol of delicate, translucent ice above her. She wore a loose, pale dress that shimmered like frost, her hair swept up by sea wind.
"You're both being dramatic," she said calmly. "And loud."
"Oh, excuse me, Your Ice Highness," Claire grinned, before tossing her wind ball casually at Camille's side.
Camille caught it in a sphere of glittering frost without so much as looking, let it evaporate, and walked straight past her with the grace of someone who'd long since learned how to deal with chaos.
I smiled.
Lillian appeared next.
She wore a sunhat too large for her head and a flowing off-white robe that trailed behind her like clouds. She had a basket in one hand—fresh fruit, I could tell by the scent—and a faint dusting of sand on her bare shoulders.
She caught my eye immediately.
And smiled.
It was the kind of smile that never asked questions. That just saw.
She crossed the sand toward me, knelt gracefully, and pressed a chilled lychee into my hand.
"Eat," she said softly. "You forget when you're happy."
"I do not."
"You do." She leaned in. "You used to do the same thing at the academy."
"And you used to be less bold," I murmured.
Her eyes sparkled. "Did I?"
I didn't answer.
Mostly because I couldn't—Claire had launched herself directly into my side a second later, toppling both Lillian and me into the sand.
"Claire!" I gasped.
"Sorry!" she chirped, clearly not sorry at all. "You looked like you needed a hug."
"You're soaked!"
"You're beautiful!"
I groaned.
Somewhere behind me, Camille sighed.
Diana laughed.
And just past the crest of the hill, I felt a familiar presence—still and steady as stone.
Tessa.
She hadn't said a word yet, but I could feel her watching us. I glanced toward her and caught the faintest smile on her lips as she sat with her legs stretched long in the grass, a book open, unread, in her lap.
Tessa didn't join the noise.
But she never stayed away.
We were all here.
And no one had said it aloud, not in years, but we didn't need to.
This was our life now.
Mornings with fresh fruit and sea air.
Afternoons tangled in laughter and soft magic that sparked in the sand—Camille's frost roses blooming beside Lillian's glowing lilies. Claire's wild wind-chimes shrieking through the sky as Diana's light shields intercepted them mid-air, turning every challenge into play.
And nights…
Nights were another kind of magic entirely.
But those were for us.
Not the world.
Not the sea.
Just the six of us.
I leaned back again, closing my eyes as Claire draped herself across my stomach and Lillian curled up beside my shoulder, humming some old tune from the academy days.
The waves kept whispering.
The light kept softening.
I didn't know what tomorrow would bring.
Didn't care.
The sun dipped lower behind the waves, casting long shadows over the sand. Camille was the first to rise, brushing stray grains from her skirt, her movements slow and deliberate.
"I'm going in before Claire convinces us all to wrestle in the tide again," she said, voice calm but wry.
"Hey!" Claire shot up from where she was sprawled over me. "I only wrestle with consent."
"Bold of you to say after throwing yourself at me," I muttered, trying to shake sand out of my hair.
She winked, completely unrepentant.
Camille extended a hand toward me. I took it, her fingers cool and firm around mine as she helped me up. Lillian rose gracefully beside us, and Claire took off in a sprint toward the house, shouting something about calling dibs on the bath.
Diana trailed after, arms crossed, though I could hear the smile in her voice as she muttered, "You don't call dibs when there are six of us, Claire."
Tessa met us halfway down the slope. She offered no words—just brushed a bit of sea-grass off my sleeve and gave a gentle nod toward the house, like she was quietly ushering us forward.
I followed them up the wooden path, my sandals forgotten somewhere in the dunes.
The porch steps creaked under our weight. Camille's ice parasol dissolved into mist as she stepped inside. The front door was already open, a soft gust rolling through the house and sending the sheer curtains dancing in the hall.
Inside, everything smelled like lemon balm and warm wood. The sea's hush still threaded through the windows, but here it was muted—just background music to the softness we'd built.
The foyer opened into a sprawling main room, framed by sun-bleached walls and a high-beamed ceiling. Books spilled from open shelves. A woven rug covered the cool tile beneath our feet. Someone's slippers—Claire's, probably—were abandoned haphazardly near the base of the stairs.
A pair of white tea mugs sat on the windowsill, forgotten mid-conversation.
Home.
I barely stepped through the doorway before I felt fingers brush my wrist. I turned.
Lillian stood behind me, her eyes warm, her voice low. "Come sit before Claire uses up all the hot water."
"She's already shouting about bath bombs," Camille added from the kitchen, where she had begun brewing a pot of floral tea. "You've got two minutes, if that."
I glanced down the hallway—Diana was already halfway up the stairs, her braid swinging behind her as she called, "If she locks the door, I'm melting it."
"Good luck," Claire's voice floated from above, smug and distant.
I smiled despite myself.
Lillian led me to the couch, her fingers still loosely entwined with mine. Tessa followed, then quietly curled up at the opposite end with one of her half-read books.
Camille brought in a teapot and three small cups, setting them gently on the low table. Her eyes met mine for a moment before she sat on the armrest beside me, legs crossed, her presence grounding.
Steam curled upward, catching the orange-pink glow of the setting sun.
Lillian poured the first cup and handed it to me with both hands, as if it were something sacred.
I took it carefully.
The tea was warm and fragrant—jasmine and lavender.
Tessa's quiet page turn was the only sound for a few breaths.
Then Camille's voice: "I washed your favorite throw blanket."
I looked at her, puzzled.
She gestured lazily with her fingers toward the blanket now draped over the back of the couch—light blue, soft as clouds. "Figured you'd want it when you fell asleep reading again."
Lillian's hand brushed my knee under the blanket. "She's been leaving it there every night since…"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
"I noticed," I murmured.
Camille looked pleased but said nothing.
From upstairs came the unmistakable splash of water hitting tile, followed by Claire's delighted cackle and Diana's sharp, "You locked the door with a what spell?"
"Oh, don't be mad, you're cute when you're flustered!"
Lillian sighed into her tea, but she was smiling.
The sound of distant chaos had never been more comforting.
Camille leaned into me slightly. "You could still sneak a bath if you wanted."
"I like it here," I said softly.
Her head rested gently against my shoulder in response.
And in that stillness—
In the low golden light, in the soft scent of tea, in the weight of Lillian's hand against my thigh and the steady warmth of Tessa's quiet companionship—
I felt full.
Whole.
Home.
I closed my eyes.
Not because I was tired.
But because this moment deserved to be felt in every other way.
Behind me, the sea kept singing.
Ahead of me, laughter rang down the stairs.
And around me…
The five lights that had once changed my world—
Now simply lived in it.
With me.
Beside me.
Always.
The kitchen always came alive at dusk.
Golden light spilled through the open windows, dancing over the countertops and casting soft silhouettes on the cabinets. The air was thick with scent—garlic browning in butter, fresh herbs crushed between fingers, the sweet perfume of roasted root vegetables caramelizing in the oven.
Claire had flour on her cheek.
Camille had it on purposefully nowhere.
She worked with quiet precision, sleeves rolled neatly to her elbows as she stirred something silky in a pan, her hair tied loosely with a ribbon Claire had tried to steal earlier.
Tessa stood beside the stove, tending to a pot of jasmine rice. She didn't say much, but I could feel the way she'd angle her body slightly toward mine every time I passed her. Silent check-ins. Quiet care.
Lillian was slicing strawberries for the chilled wine glasses, humming something lilting and old—something that sounded like summer.
And Diana…
Diana leaned casually against the counter, biting into a slice of grilled zucchini that wasn't technically done. She caught my glance.
"What?" she said, lips glistening.
"You're cheating."
"It's called taste-testing, sweetheart."
I tried to hide the smile that slipped past.
She didn't miss it.
In the warmth and shimmer of the room, we moved without needing to speak much. Plates passed from one hand to another. Spices added with a shared glance. Laughter curled through the kitchen like smoke—light, clinging, welcome.
I leaned over to test the stew Tessa was watching. She didn't move as I lifted the wooden spoon, but when I tasted it and hummed in approval, I felt her brush her arm lightly against mine.
Not an accident.
Not a request.
Just a thank-you.
Dinner was laid out under string lights on the porch. The table was a patchwork of dishes—herbed rice, lemon-roasted vegetables, tomato soup with fresh basil, grilled seafood, honey-glazed squash, and warm, crusty bread slathered in herb butter.
We sat barefoot, legs folded beneath us, shoulders brushing lightly under the hanging bulbs as dusk melted into a velvet sky.
I fed Lillian a slice of strawberry dipped in cream. She accepted it with a pleased sigh and leaned in, brushing her lips against my cheek, soft and slow.
Diana slid a forkful of squash into my mouth when I wasn't paying attention. I nearly choked. She looked too pleased with herself.
Tessa handed Camille a spoon with one of her favorite bites from the stew—Camille didn't even blink, just opened her mouth and accepted it with quiet grace, her gaze fixed on mine the whole time.
Claire took a bite of everything off everyone's plate, declared herself the "culinary soulmate of the table," and tried to feed me a mushroom until I surrendered.
The conversation faded in and out.
Little things.
Old jokes.
New dreams.
The food disappeared slowly, in between laughter and touches—knees knocking under the table, fingers tracing the edge of a wrist, a soft kiss pressed to a bare shoulder just because the moment asked for it.
It was quiet.
It was real.
And it was ours.
The plates were nearly empty now, and someone had lit a few more candles along the porch railing. The glow flickered against Camille's profile as she leaned back against the railing, sipping wine from Lillian's glass like it had always been hers.
I leaned into Claire's side, and she curled her arm around me, tugging me closer. Diana stretched beside me, legs crossed beneath her, her hand idly playing with a strand of my hair.
Tessa sat at my feet, resting her cheek against my knee.
And when I reached for my own glass, something caught the light.
Just for a second.
A gleam of metal.
A simple ring. Gold. No crest, no stone.
Just the weight of something permanent.
Noticed another.
Then another.
One by one.
On Lillian's hand as she twirled a lock of my hair.
On Diana's, shining under the candlelight.
On Claire's, when she poured the wine too enthusiastically and spilled a drop on the table.
On Camille's, when she reached to trace a fingertip along my collarbone.
On Tessa's, still and quiet, when she slid her fingers between mine.
And on mine.
Simple.
Identical.
No words spoken.
No grand ceremony.
Just something shared.
Something worn.
And though the stars had begun to scatter themselves above us, and the sea wind picked up again, I stayed still.
Held by five hands.
Anchored by five hearts.
And loved.
Without need for a name. Without need for a choice.
Only the moment.
And the glimmer of rings that told a story no one else needed to understand.