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The sky had been different in Novyi Zem. Or maybe that was just Jesper’s memory dressing it up, painting it the way he wanted—bluer, wider, hung with a sun that seemed to catch everything in its hand and set it shining.
Here in Ketterdam, the night was more smoke than stars. The city’s glow clawed and scratched, if Jesper squinted long enough, he could convince himself there were constellations hiding between the haze. If he really tried.
He leaned against the railing of the balcony, spinning the revolver lightly in his hands—empty, just for the weight of it.
Tilting his head back,he breathed in deep, damp harbor air filling his lungs, and let the words slip out, low and unsteady.
“Mama, you would’ve loved him.”
The words startled him. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud. Saints, he hadn’t meant to say them at all. They’d been circling him for months now, an orbit too close, pulling tighter every time he caught sight of Wylan with his curls in his eyes and that little frown of concentration as he bent over some machine. But saying them—saying them made it real, made it ache.
Jesper’s eyes flicked back to the door behind him. The soft glow of lamplight spilled through the curtains, and inside, Wylan was bent over his desk, curls haloed by gold as he worked some new tangle of gears and brass into place. Jesper could hear the faint scrape of metal on metal even out here, the steady rhythm of Wylan’s focus.
Jesper pressed a palm flat to the railing, grounding himself in the chill iron. “He’s stubborn, you’d like that. Smarter than anyone I’ve ever met, but he doesn’t shove it in your face, not unless you deserve it. He builds things—Saints, Mama, you should see the things he builds. Bridges out of nothing. Music just comes to him.”
His throat caught. He could picture it so clearly it hurt—her laugh when Wylan fumbled through one of his shy smiles, her hand squeezing Jesper’s shoulder in that quiet way of saying I see you, you did well.
“You’d love him,” Jesper whispered. “And—he’d love you. He would. He’s good like that.”
The words hung there, heavy and unbearable. Jesper clenched his jaw, trying to breathe around it, but the ache only swelled. It felt like a hand closing around his chest, squeezing tighter, tighter.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Jesper startled, half-ready to tuck his grief away like contraband, but it was too late—Wylan was already there.
He hovered in the doorway, curls mussed from his hands, a smudge of oil streaking his cheek. His eyes searched Jesper’s face, careful and curious, like he wasn’t sure if he should step closer.
Jesper tried for a grin and failed. His mouth twisted, broke. “Caught me talkin’ to the sky huh? Nothing suspicious about that, right?”
Wylan tilted his head. “Who were you talking to?”
Jesper swallowed, revolver heavy in his hand. “My mother.” The word felt strange and raw in his mouth. He turned his face back toward the city lights, because looking at Wylan while saying it seemed impossible. “She used to tell me the sky carried words if you gave them enough heart. Like the Zemeni winds would pick them up and take them wherever they needed to go.”
Wylan stepped closer, until he was at Jesper’s side. His hand brushed Jesper’s on the railing, cool fingers curling around iron.
Jesper forced out the truth in a rasp. “I told her about you. That she would’ve loved you.”
Silence. Then: “I wish I could’ve met her,” Wylan said, voice soft.
Jesper nodded too fast, blinking hard, but the burn in his eyes didn’t ease. He laughed, but it cracked in half. “She was… she was everything, merchling. Sunlight in human form. And I can’t—” The words snapped loose, broken. His chest heaved. “I can’t ever show her. I can’t tell her about you, can’t watch her see the way you look at me. Saints, she’ll never know—”
The dam broke. His hand shot to his face, useless at hiding the sob that clawed its way out of his throat. He folded in on himself, shoulders shaking, the city swimming around him in salt and smoke. He hated it—hated being cracked open, hated the sound of himself breaking—but the grief was too big to swallow down this time.
And then Wylan’s hands were on him. Steady, careful, pulling the revolver from his grip, threading fingers through his own. He didn’t say anything at first—just anchored Jesper, held him against the railing, his curls brushing Jesper’s cheek.
When he did speak, it was quiet, certain. “You don’t have to tell her,” Wylan whispered. “She already knows.”
Jesper let out a broken sound, half a laugh, half another sob. He pressed his forehead to Wylan’s temple, clinging to him like he might drown without it.
“You think so?” Jesper managed, voice shredded.
“I know so.” Wylan’s thumb brushed the back of his hand, steady as stone. “If she loved you the way you say… then she’d love me too. And she’d be proud. Proud you’re here. Proud you let yourself love at all.”
Jesper’s body shook with another wave of tears, but this time he didn’t fight them. He buried his face in Wylan’s curls, let the sobs tear free—ugly, unstoppable, the kind he never let anyone hear. Wylan didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, just held him closer, arms locked tight like he was determined to keep Jesper from shattering completely.
After a long stretch of silence broken only by Jesper’s ragged breaths, Wylan tilted his face toward the sky. His voice was soft, a little uncertain at first, but he let the words out anyway.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he murmured, almost like a prayer. “But if you can… thank you. For him. For the way he laughs even when things are terrible, for the way he makes me feel safe when the world isn’t. For teaching him to love big enough that it reached me, too.”
Jesper froze against him, breath hitching. His heart clenched so sharply it hurt, hearing Wylan—careful, steady Wylan—speak into the night as if Jesper’s mother were really there listening.
Wylan squeezed his hand, eyes still on the sky. “I’ll take care of him. I promise. And if you’re out there somewhere… I hope you know he takes care of me, too.”
Jesper broke again, but this time it wasn’t only grief. It was something fuller, heavier, but steadier too—love and sorrow tangled so tightly he couldn’t tell them apart.
Jesper pressed his lips to Wylan’s hair, voice hoarse and shaking.
“You hear that, Mama? He’s talking to you now.”
Above them, the sky was still thick with smoke, but Jesper swore through the blur of tears he saw one stubborn star cut through—faint, but real.
For the first time, he let himself believe she wasn’t gone completely.
He pulled back just enough to see Wylan’s face, pale in the glow of the city lights, curls tumbling into his eyes. Something in Jesper’s chest loosened, and before he could think better of it, he leaned down and kissed him—soft, desperate, grateful.
Wylan startled against his mouth, then smiled into the kiss, small and a little shaky. When Jesper finally pulled back, breath unsteady, Wylan’s eyes glinted with quiet mischief.
“Not in front of your mother,” he whispered.
Jesper barked out a laugh, broken but real, the kind that left his ribs aching. He cupped Wylan’s cheek, thumb brushing over the smudge of oil there. “Saints, I knew you’d charm her right away.”
Wylan rolled his eyes, but the smile stayed. And Jesper, still raw and wrecked, still aching, felt something in him steady at last—like maybe, between the stars and Wylan’s hands, he wasn’t carrying it all alone anymore.