When the news of Lucius Malfoy's death reached him, Theo found himself engulfed in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. The weight of the information settled over him like a suffocating fog, thick and impenetrable, leaving him momentarily frozen in place. It was an event he had never truly considered, and yet now that it had come to pass, he wasn't sure how to feel.
Relief was the first emotion that stirred within him, unbidden and unsettling. He knew it wasn't proper—wasn't right—to feel relief at a man's death, but there it was, undeniable and persistent, humming beneath the surface of his thoughts. He had spent enough time around the Malfoys to understand the iron grip Lucius had held over his son, how his presence had shaped Draco into both the man he had become and the prisoner he had always been. Lucius Malfoy had been an imposing force, casting a shadow so long and suffocating that Theo had often wondered if Draco would ever be able to break free of it.
Theo had seen firsthand how that weight had burdened his friend, how it had kept him tethered to expectations that no longer fit the world they lived in. Lucius had built a cage around Draco with gilded bars—lavish, inescapable, and reinforced with pureblood tradition and rigid duty. He had provided everything: wealth, power, a name that once held immeasurable influence. And yet, he had taken just as much, demanding perfection, obedience, and unwavering loyalty, leaving Draco to suffocate under the weight of expectations he could never fully meet.
Now, with Lucius gone, the ties that had bound Draco to his father's ambitions, his sins, and his legacy had finally been severed. And for that, Theo found himself feeling—almost guiltily—grateful. He knew Draco would grieve. Despite everything, despite the cruelty, the suffocating control, and the impossible expectations, blood was blood. And Draco had always, even in his darkest moments, sought some form of validation from the man who had shaped his existence.
But Theo also knew that, beneath that grief, there would be something else. A quiet, forbidden exhale of relief. A sense of liberation that Draco might never admit to but that would linger all the same. He was free now. Free from the ever-watchful eye of a father whose love had always been conditional, free from the burden of trying to measure up to a man who had demanded too much and given too little.
Theo thought back to the countless nights they had spent together, whiskey dulling the sharp edges of Draco's words as he had spoken—never fully, never easily, but always enough for Theo to understand. The scars Lucius had left were deeper than any seen by the naked eye. They were woven into the way Draco hesitated before making decisions, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was watching, the way he carried his last name like a shackle rather than a source of pride.
Would this be the moment Draco finally stepped out of the shadow that had loomed over him his entire life? Or would the loss, even one as complex as this, unravel him further?
Lucius had been many things—a tyrant, a mentor, an enforcer of a dying ideology—but he had also been Draco's guide. Twisted as it was, he had been the voice steering him, controlling him, shaping the path beneath his feet. And now that voice was silent. Would Draco find his own, or would the void left behind consume him?
Theo exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face as the thoughts churned in his mind. He didn't know the answer. Not yet. But he did know one thing—Draco had been given something that, until now, had never been his. A choice.
And for the first time, Draco Malfoy was truly free to decide who he would become.
And then there was Hermione. Theo couldn't shake the thought of her, of how this news would weigh on her shoulders just as much as it would on Draco's. She had become a stabilizing force in Draco's life, a steady presence that grounded him when the ghosts of his past threatened to drag him under. She had offered him something that no one else ever had—unconditional acceptance. But grief had a way of testing even the strongest of bonds. Would she be enough to pull Draco through this storm, or would the deep wounds of his complicated relationship with his father drive a wedge between them?
As Theo sat with these thoughts, he realized just how tangled his own emotions were. Relief, guilt, uncertainty, hope—each emotion wrapped around the next, forming a knot so tight he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to untangle it. How was it possible to feel so many things at once? He wasn't mourning Lucius, not truly, but he was mourning what his death represented. The end of an era. The breaking of chains. The fear of what would come next.
With a slow, measured breath, he forced himself to steady the turmoil inside him. One thing was certain: Draco would need him now more than ever. No matter how complicated Theo's own feelings were, that was something he would not hesitate on. Because that's what they did—stood by each other, through the dark and the light, through every impossible moment.
As that realization settled, a quiet resolve took root in his chest. Maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something new—not just for Draco, but for all of them. And though the road ahead was uncertain, Theo knew one thing with absolute certainty. Whatever came next, they would face it together. Just as they always had.
Lucius Malfoy had never been a good man—not a good father, not a good husband, not even a good ally to those who had once followed him blindly. He had been as cold and unyielding as the marble halls of Malfoy Manor, a man of sharp edges and calculated cruelty. His presence commanded fear, his expectations suffocated, and his ambitions consumed everything in their path. He had built his life on power, deception, and an unwavering belief in the superiority of his bloodline. But in doing so, he had forged invisible chains around his son—shackles Draco had spent his entire life trying, and failing, to break.
So when Theo heard of Lucius Malfoy's death, he expected to feel nothing. Or, at the very least, he expected to feel satisfaction, relief, something bordering on closure. But what settled over him instead was an unfamiliar, tangled mess of emotions—confusion, unease, and a gnawing sense of inevitability. Because for all the suffering Lucius had caused, his death still felt monumental, like the fall of an empire, leaving behind a legacy that was as wretched as it was inescapable.
Lucius had been a tyrant in his own right, not through overt violence, but through control. Draco had lived his entire life under the weight of his father's expectations, carrying the burden of a name that was both a privilege and a curse. He had never been given the luxury of choosing his own path—his father had carved it out for him long before he was old enough to understand what it meant. Lucius had shaped Draco, but not in the way a father should. He had honed him, sharpened him into something useful, something polished and pristine on the outside but filled with quiet, desperate fractures beneath the surface.
And Theo had seen those fractures. He had seen them in the tension that lingered in Draco's shoulders, in the way his hands trembled after too many drinks, in the restless pacing that filled the silence of late nights. He had heard them in the way Draco spoke of his father—not with love, not even with hate, but with resignation. With exhaustion. As though he had long since accepted that he would never be enough.
That was why, despite everything, Theo couldn't begrudge the sliver of relief curling inside him. Because Draco was finally free. Free from the impossible standard set for him, free from the constant scrutiny, the never-ending cycle of trying and failing to be the son Lucius had wanted him to be. But Theo also knew that freedom, when given too late, could be just as dangerous as captivity.
And then, of course, there was Hermione.
Theo could already picture her reaction, the way her brows would knit together in concern, the way she would reach for Draco, anchoring him with the quiet steadiness she had always provided. She had become his harbor, the one person who had never demanded anything from him except to be exactly who he was. But grief was unpredictable, and Draco's relationship with his father had been anything but simple. Would she be able to pull him through this? Or would the weight of it—the tangled mess of guilt, resentment, relief, and sorrow—be too much for even her to bear?
As these thoughts swirled in his mind, he let out a slow, measured breath. He couldn't predict how Draco would react, how this loss would shape him. But he did know one thing: Draco would not face it alone.
Lucius Malfoy had spent his life controlling, dictating, shaping the futures of others. But in his absence, for the first time, Draco would be given the chance to decide who he wanted to be—without his father's shadow looming over him.
It would not be an easy road. The Malfoy name was still heavy with the weight of its past, and the world would not forget it so easily. Draco would have to fight to reclaim his place in it, to carve out something that was his, something untethered from the expectations of a man who had never truly seen him. But maybe, just maybe, this was the moment he had always needed—the moment where he could finally stop living for a name and start living for himself.
Theo wasn't sure what the future would hold, but he knew one thing for certain: whatever came next, Draco wouldn't face it alone. Because despite all the darkness, despite all the years spent navigating the chaos of their pasts, that was the one thing they had always been able to count on—each other.
~~~~~~
Twenty-eight hours later, Draco stood beside Hermione at the gravesite, their hands clasped tightly together, each gripping the other as if drawing strength from their connection. Their gazes were fixed on the open grave of Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, the ground freshly disturbed and waiting to receive the man who had once commanded both fear and respect. The still morning air hung heavy with the weight of the past, a tangible silence pressing down upon them, amplifying the gravity of the moment.
Neither of them felt sorrow. There was no overwhelming grief or loss that engulfed their hearts; instead, a profound sense of detachment washed over them. It was as if they were observing the end of a chapter they had long since stopped reading—an emotionless witness to the burial of a man who had shaped their lives in ways they had both struggled to articulate. A cold, clinical peace had settled in, a tranquil calm that followed the storm of their shared histories.
The others stood nearby, each lost in their thoughts. Theo, Pansy, and Blaise formed a quiet trio, their expressions mirroring the sense of closure that lingered in the air. They, too, were grappling with the implications of this moment. In their own ways, they had all been touched by Lucius Malfoy's influence, but today was a farewell to the dark legacy he had left behind.
As the first shovelfuls of soil began to cover the coffin, Draco's heart felt oddly light. The man being lowered into the earth had once been a towering figure in their lives, a symbol of power, darkness, and a cruel legacy. But now, stripped of his influence and grandeur, he was merely a ghost of the past, a relic of a world they had both fought so hard to escape. The rhythmic sound of the earth being cast down felt almost like a lullaby, soothing in its finality.
Nearby, Narcissa stood composed and solemn, her elegant figure framed against the gray sky. To anyone else, she appeared the very picture of grief, but her eyes betrayed a sense of relief rather than sorrow. Years of heavy burdens seemed to lift from her shoulders as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. The oppressive weight of her husband's expectations and the shadows of his darker deeds were now being buried alongside him. A single tear escaped Narcissa's eye as the coffin disappeared from sight, falling like a silent acknowledgement of a life lived, a chapter finally closed.
She glanced at Draco and Hermione, a small nod of acknowledgment passing between them. In that moment, unspoken understanding flowed between the three of them. They had shared the burden of Lucius Malfoy's oppressive legacy, and now they were free to redefine their lives without his looming presence.
No one spoke during the service. The sky above was overcast, matching the somber mood of those gathered. The minister's voice, steady yet hollow, recited the words of the ceremony, but they felt like echoes of a distant past, lost in the weight of their own reflections. As he concluded the final prayers, the gathered crowd began to disperse slowly, a muted procession of figures lost in their own thoughts.
Draco and Hermione remained behind for a moment longer, their thoughts intertwined yet separate. Draco's mind was a whirlwind of memories—both cherished and haunting—flashes of his childhood, the suffocating expectations, and the moments of clarity he had found amidst the chaos. He felt Hermione's presence beside him, her strength a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty swirling within him.
Pansy settled into her seat beside the boys, her expression a mix of relief and defiance. She surveyed their faces, each marked with a blend of camaraderie and understanding that only those who had endured similar hardships could share.
"Good riddance," she declared, the words spilling from her lips with a fierce conviction.
In unison, the boys echoed back, "Amen." The sound reverberated through the room, a chorus of agreement that hung in the air like a spell cast to ward off old memories.
Blaise leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head as a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. "None of us cried when our parents died or went to Azkaban," he remarked, his tone light yet laced with an underlying seriousness.
Theo chuckled, nodding in agreement. "Why would we? I was quite happy, actually." His eyes twinkled with mischief, recalling the burdens they had all shed over the years.
Pansy leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table as she chimed in, "Me too. It's like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders." The truth of her words resonated within her, a liberating sensation that she hadn't fully grasped until now.
The conversation flowed easily among them, the shared understanding of their past binding them together. They began reminiscing about their childhoods—fragments of memories both painful and absurd.
"Remember when we tried to sneak into the Forbidden Forest?" Blaise began, laughter dancing in his eyes. "We thought we were so clever until Hagrid found us and dragged us back like a couple of lost puppies."
"Oh, please," she scoffed, shaking her head, but her smile betrayed her amusement. "You were the one who nearly fell into that boggart! I thought I was going to die from laughter."
Theo chimed in, "I still can't believe you thought it was a giant snake, Pansy. You nearly gave Hagrid a heart attack!"
They shared hearty laughter, the kind that echoed off the walls and seemed to fill the space with warmth. It felt good to lighten the atmosphere, to banish the heaviness of the funeral from their minds, even if just for a moment.
"But really," Blaise said, his expression shifting slightly, "this is a new beginning for us. We can finally break free from the shadows our families cast over us. No more guilt, no more expectations."
Pansy's heart swelled at the thought. "Yes! We can define our own lives now. This is our chance to build something that's truly ours."
Theo grinned, leaning back with a confident flair. "We should throw a party—celebrate our newfound freedom! Invite everyone who's ever felt trapped by their family's expectations."
Blaise raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "I like that idea. A real bash to kick off our rebellion against the past!"
"Count me in," Pansy added enthusiastically, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "We could make it a theme—something extravagant, something that would make our families turn in their graves."
They began tossing ideas around, the atmosphere buzzing with energy as they envisioned a night filled with laughter, music, and the sweet taste of freedom.
As the conversation flowed, Pansy felt a sense of belonging that warmed her from the inside out. She realized that this bond with the boys was something she had craved all along—a family forged not by blood, but by shared experiences and mutual understanding.
"Here's to new beginnings," Pansy raised an imaginary glass, her voice bright and full of hope.
"To new beginnings!" they echoed back, their spirits lifted, united in the promise of what was to come.
~~~~~~
He arrived home, the familiar creak of the old wooden door slicing through the heavy silence of Nott Manor. The air inside was still, untouched, as if time itself refused to move within these walls. A storm churned in his chest, a violent, unrelenting thing, but outwardly, he was composed. He always was. His face remained a carefully practiced mask of indifference, his hands steady despite the quiet fury simmering beneath his skin.
Why didn't he ever cry for his family?
The answer was simple.
He despised them.
His footsteps were muffled by the thick rugs lining the cold stone floors, but the weight of his presence did nothing to disturb the lifeless hush that had always plagued the manor. This house—this gilded tomb—was nothing more than an elaborate shrine to a family name that had long since lost its meaning. Pureblooded legacy, ancient wealth, tradition—none of it had ever mattered to him. Not when every memory tethered to this place was steeped in pain, in neglect, in a kind of loneliness so consuming that it had hollowed him out long before he had learned what it meant to truly feel.
His bag hit the floor at the base of the staircase with a dull thud, the only real sound in the cavernous entryway. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair, but the gesture did nothing to loosen the suffocating grip of the past that lingered in every shadowed corridor. The silence here wasn't comforting; it wasn't even peaceful. It was the silence of absence, of neglect, of all the things that should have been said but never were. It was a silence he had long since grown accustomed to—not just within these walls, but within himself.
And that was the truth of it.
There was no grief to mourn, no love lost. He had nothing to cry for because there was nothing left inside him that resembled sorrow. Only the cold, unyielding hatred that had long since calcified in his bones.
His father had been a monster in every sense of the word—brutal, calculating, cruel. A man who wielded discipline like a weapon, who carved obedience out of flesh and bone without a second thought. There had been no kindness in his upbringing, no warmth in the way a father should hold his son. The rare moments of attention he had received had been punctuated by violence, or worse—words laced with venom, designed to cut deeper than any belt or wand ever could.
His mother had been no better. Present in body, absent in every way that mattered. A ghost of a woman who had surrendered to her own misery long before she had ever considered fighting for him. She had turned away when he needed her most, retreating into a world of apathy and self-preservation while he bore the full weight of his father's rage. If she had ever loved him, she had never shown it. If she had ever considered saving him, she had never tried.
He loathed them both.
He had learned early that crying changed nothing. Tears wouldn't stop the blows, wouldn't soften the words that sliced into him like knives, wouldn't earn him anything but more pain. In his house, weakness was a liability, a thing to be exploited, to be ridiculed. He had been forced to strip himself of it, to bury every ounce of vulnerability so deep that it eventually ceased to exist. His father had seen to that.
"Stop crying."
"Be a man."
"You're pathetic, unworthy, nothing."
So, he had stopped crying.
And eventually, he had stopped feeling altogether.
Survival.
That had been his life's sole focus for as long as he could remember. Surviving the beatings. Surviving the cold, hollow indifference of his mother. Surviving the loneliness that had settled in his bones like a bitter winter, stretching through every inch of him until it became all he knew. But survival had come at a cost. In learning not to cry, he had also learned not to feel.
He had built walls so high, so impenetrable, that even those who loved him couldn't see the ruin behind them. Not even Luna, with her unsettling ability to see straight through people, had been allowed past them—not fully. He had never let her that close. Not to that part of him.
The weight of it all pressed down on him as he walked into the drawing room, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. He slumped onto the leather sofa, its familiar, worn surface creaking beneath him. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the dark-paneled walls, but the warmth never reached him. It never had.
Nott Manor had never been a home, not in the way that mattered. Even now, despite claiming it as his own, despite stripping away every last remnant of the man who had ruled over it with an iron fist, it still felt tainted. It still belonged to someone else. Someone who had wielded fear like a weapon, who had turned love into something foreign and unknowable.
His father was gone—had been for years now—but the memories remained, burned into the walls, into the very foundation of this place, like bloodstains that refused to fade. He had told himself he was free. He had told himself that none of it mattered anymore.
But freedom didn't come with peace.
It came with a hollow emptiness, a yawning void that nothing seemed to fill. The very thing that had kept him going—the sheer force of will it had taken to defy them, to outlive them—was suddenly meaningless. He had spent his entire life fighting against them, and now they were gone.
And yet, they still haunted him.
He stared into the flickering flames, trying—really trying—to remember the last time he had felt anything about them beyond hatred. Loathing, yes. Contempt, always. But had there ever been anything else?
He couldn't remember. He didn't want to.
The past was a locked door, one he had sealed shut years ago and thrown away the key. But now, sitting here, alone in the vast emptiness of a house that had never been a home, he wondered—just for a moment—if it was time to open that door, even just a crack.
Not for the sake of closure. He didn't believe in that.
But for the sake of understanding.
Because beneath all the rage and resentment, buried under years of silence and self-preservation, there was something else. Something raw. Something he had never dared to confront.
Why didn't he cry for his family?
Because there was nothing to cry for. No love to mourn. No connection to grieve. His father had been a tyrant. His mother had been a coward. They had failed him in every possible way.
And yet, that failure was the only constant he had ever known.
A truth he had learned to live with, one that had shaped him into the man he was now. A man who had survived.
He rose from the sofa, his gaze still fixed on the fire, his jaw set in quiet resolve.
No, there would be no tears for them.
But there would be something else.
A reckoning.
A realization that while they had shaped him, they did not define him. That while he had survived their cruelty, he no longer had to carry the weight of their sins.
He could shed them—piece by piece—until there was nothing left of them to haunt him.
And for now, that was enough.
~~~~~~
Thanks to Merlin, Luna had come home.
Luna—his lighthouse, his anchor—always seemed to know when the weight of the world was pressing too heavily on his shoulders. She was light in his darkness, warmth in the cold, and without needing to say a word, she grounded him when his mind drifted too far into the past.
They found themselves in Neville's garden, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun. The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and a gentle breeze rustled through the leaves, carrying the peaceful hum of nature. Theo stood back, watching her from a short distance, drinking in the way she moved—effortless, as if she belonged among the wildflowers. She paused every now and then, fingertips brushing over petals, tilting her head to listen as Neville spoke to her about his plants.
For the first time in days, the tightness in Theo's chest began to ease.
Luna never pried. She never demanded words from him when he wasn't ready to give them. She simply existed beside him, a quiet and unwavering presence that allowed him to breathe.
At some point, she turned, her silvery gaze locking onto his. The warmth in her expression, the understanding written in the soft curve of her lips—it was enough to undo him. Without hesitation, she stepped toward him, closing the distance with the same quiet grace she carried in everything she did.
And then, without a single word, she reached for his hand.
Theo let out a slow exhale, his fingers closing tightly around hers. She always knew when he needed her. Always. And with just one touch, she could shatter the walls he worked so hard to build.
She let him pull her closer, molding against him with a familiarity that soothed the ache inside him. When she tilted her face up, he leaned in without thinking, their lips meeting in a kiss that was neither rushed nor desperate, but filled with something deeper—something unspoken.
It wasn't just passion. It was home. It was a promise.
His hands trembled slightly as they moved to cup her face, holding her as though she might slip away. But she wasn't going anywhere. She never did.
Luna kissed him the way she always did—with every ounce of love she had, pouring it into him without hesitation, without expectation. She kissed him as though she could take his burdens and carry them alongside him, as though she wanted to remind him that he was never alone.
When she pulled back, her luminous eyes searched his, her smile soft and knowing. "You looked like you needed that," she teased, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He let out a breathless chuckle, though emotion still thickened his voice. "You have no idea."
Her fingers threaded through his, grounding him further. "I'm here," she whispered, as steady as the earth beneath his feet. "Whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone."
He swallowed hard, his heart heavy but full. He had never been good at letting people in, had spent most of his life ensuring that no one got too close. But Luna… she was different. She didn't push or pry. She didn't demand answers. She just was. And somehow, that was enough.
He rested his forehead against hers, closing his eyes as he let himself simply exist in this moment, in her presence.
They stood like that for a long while, wrapped in the quiet sanctuary of each other.
Eventually, she broke the silence, her voice laced with amusement. "You should have seen Neville trying to convince me that his herbology skills are the reason this garden looks so beautiful," she mused. "I think the garden gnomes deserve some credit."
Theo huffed a laugh, his lips quirking into a rare, genuine smile. "I'm sure Neville would love to hear that."
She giggled, the sound like music against the quiet backdrop of the garden, and something inside Theo shifted—a tension he hadn't even realized he was holding onto loosened.
Looking at her, standing there bathed in golden sunlight, he felt something unfamiliar. Something dangerous in its intensity.
Gratitude.
Not just for Luna, but for the life they were building together.
He wasn't perfect. He had his demons, his scars, his past. But with her, he felt like he could be more than just the sum of his mistakes.
His thumb brushed absentmindedly over her knuckles, and the words left his lips before he could stop them. "I love you."
It was quiet, but sure. A truth he hadn't voiced nearly enough, but one that filled every part of him.
Luna's eyes softened, a radiant smile pulling at her lips. "And I love you more," she whispered, pressing a featherlight kiss to his cheek.
And in that moment, nothing else mattered.
The past, the pain, the ghosts that lurked in the corners of his mind—none of it held any power over him when she was in his arms.
No matter what storms lay ahead, he knew one thing for certain.
With Luna, he would never have to weather them alone.
~~~~~~
Theo needed an escape.
The weight of expectations, the ghosts of his past, the relentless pull of responsibility—it was all becoming too much. The suffocating demands of his life had begun to chip away at him, and for the first time in a long while, he felt the desperate need to step away. To breathe. To be somewhere that didn't remind him of duty, of history, of all the things that kept him tethered to a world that never let him rest.
And there was only one person who could give him that peace.
As the golden light of the setting sun spilled through the windows of their sitting room, he turned to Luna. She was curled up in a chair, lost in the pages of her book, her soft voice humming some forgotten tune under her breath. There was a stillness to her, a quiet magic that settled the air around her, as if she existed just slightly beyond the worries of the world.
She looked up at him then, as if sensing the shift in his mood before he even spoke. Her gaze, ever full of curiosity and understanding, met his with silent invitation.
"My moon," he murmured, his voice low, steady, yet carrying the weight of all that had been pressing down on him. "How would you feel about us taking a break? A real one. Just us, the ocean, and nothing else for a while."
She tilted her head slightly, considering, her book already forgotten. There was no hesitation in her expression, only that boundless love and quiet knowing that always made it easier to say the things he struggled to put into words.
She rose from her chair, moving toward him with the same ethereal grace she always carried, and placed a gentle hand on his chest. "A beach?" she asked, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "Just the two of us?"
He nodded, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled, already feeling lighter just speaking the thought aloud. "Yeah. A week… maybe more. Somewhere quiet, where we don't have to be anything but ourselves. No responsibilities, no one watching. Just you and me."
Her smile deepened, soft and luminous, as if she had been waiting for him to say those exact words. "That sounds perfect," she whispered. "We could both use some time to breathe."
He took her hands in his, pulling her close, pressing his forehead against hers as his eyes fluttered shut. "I need this, my love," he admitted, the words barely above a whisper. "I need to get away. With you."
Luna understood. She always did. She didn't ask for explanations, didn't press him to unravel the thoughts he wasn't ready to voice. She simply knew .
She brushed a featherlight kiss against his cheek, her breath warm against his skin. "Then we'll go," she whispered. "Wherever you need to be, we'll go."
And just like that, it was decided.
They made plans—an escape to a secluded beach far removed from the demands of their lives. A place where the ocean would be their only companion, where the salty air and the rhythmic crash of waves would wash away the weight of everything left behind. He could already imagine it—the feel of warm sand beneath his feet, the sun soft against his skin, and Luna beside him, laughter carried on the breeze.
But this wasn't just a holiday.
It was a reset. A return to something real. A chance to exist outside of obligation, outside of the past, outside of everything except the love they shared.
A week away from the world wasn't just an escape—it was a promise. A step toward healing he hadn't realized he needed. And with her by his side, it would be more than just a retreat.
It would be freedom .
~~~~~~
The journey to Costa Brava was quiet, filled with a sense of anticipation so deep it hummed beneath Theo's skin. As they neared the coast, the landscape transformed before them, unfolding into a breathtaking dream—much like the world of magic they had momentarily left behind. The cliffs stood proud and unyielding, their jagged edges embracing the shimmering expanse of blue and green below. The sea stretched endlessly, its surface rippling like liquid glass beneath the golden sun. The rhythmic crash of waves against the shore echoed in his chest, each swell and retreat tugging at the tension that had been wrapped around his heart for too long.
When they arrived at their private villa—a sun-drenched retreat perched on the cliffside—Theo felt something inside him begin to unravel. The villa, wrapped in ivy and kissed by the sea breeze, was exactly the kind of place Luna had always dreamed of. Warm terracotta walls, rustic wooden beams, and large windows that opened to endless views of the Mediterranean—it was simple, yet impossibly beautiful, much like her. He watched as she stepped onto the balcony, her hair catching the sunlight, her gaze lost in the vastness of the ocean.
For the first time in what felt like forever, he exhaled without restraint.
Mornings in Costa Brava were slow, golden, wrapped in the scent of salt and citrus. On their first morning, Theo woke to find Luna already sitting cross-legged on the bed, bathed in the soft glow of dawn. She was watching the horizon, the sky melting into soft pastels where it met the sea. When she turned to him, her expression was filled with quiet joy, as if this was exactly where they were meant to be.
"Shall we explore?" she asked, brushing a gentle hand through his hair.
A slow smile spread across his lips. "Yes," he murmured. "Let's see what adventures await us."
They wandered the winding, cobbled streets of the nearby town, where time seemed to move at a different pace. The scent of fresh bread and salt lingered in the warm air, mingling with the distant sound of gulls and the chatter of locals. They explored open-air markets, Luna's curiosity leading them from one vendor to another, her delight in every small discovery making him fall in love with her all over again. She insisted on trying everything—flaky croissants, sugared pastries, golden fruits kissed by the sun. Theo simply watched, amused, as she filled their basket with treats, her laughter soft and unrestrained.
In the afternoon, they found a secluded cove, hidden between towering cliffs that embraced the shore like protective arms. The sand was soft beneath their feet, the waves cool as they lapped at their ankles. Luna waded into the water first, the ocean wrapping around her legs as she laughed, her voice carrying over the quiet, untouched beach. He watched her, spellbound by the sheer ease with which she existed in the world.
She was joy in its purest form.
As the sun climbed higher, they stretched out on the sand, side by side, the warmth of the day sinking into their skin. Theo let himself be still—truly, completely still—without the weight of his past pressing down on him, without the future clawing for his attention. There was only this moment, only the sound of the waves and the feeling of Luna beside him, her fingers idly tracing patterns on his arm.
For the first time in years, he felt free.
Back at the villa, they shared dinner on the balcony, the sun dipping below the horizon in a final, breathtaking display of color. She leaned her head on his shoulder, her hair brushing against his arm, the scent of sea salt lingering on her skin.
"I think I needed this more than I realized," he admitted, his voice softer than usual. "Being here… with you."
She tilted her face up to him, her gaze serene but knowing. "Sometimes we don't realize how much we need rest until we finally stop," she murmured, threading her fingers through his. "I'm glad you brought me here."
His chest ached in the best way. She was his home. His anchor. His peace.
That night, as they lay tangled in each other's arms, the windows open to welcome the cool night air, Theo listened to the sound of her breathing. It was steady, comforting, grounding. He held her close, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, as if he could somehow capture the quiet magic of this moment and keep it with him forever.
The days passed in a blur of sunlit mornings, stolen kisses on empty beaches, and whispered conversations beneath the stars. Theo had never known time to be so kind—to stretch itself out into something languid and sweet, offering him a reprieve he hadn't realized he so desperately needed.
And yet, all things had to end.
On their last evening, as they stood side by side watching the final sunset of their stay, he felt the familiar ache of reality creeping back in. The responsibilities they had set aside were waiting for them, the weight of their world still lingering just beyond the horizon.
But then she turned to him, her eyes filled with quiet certainty. "We'll come back here one day," she said softly, as if she had plucked the thought right from his mind. "Maybe not soon, but we will."
He looked at her, at the unwavering trust in her gaze, and nodded, squeezing her hand. "I'd like that."
Because as long as he had Luna—her love, her laughter, her quiet strength—he knew he could face whatever waited for them beyond this moment.
This hadn't just been a holiday. It had been a beginning. A renewal. A reminder that sometimes, the most profound magic wasn't found in spells or potions, but in the simple, stolen moments of peace.
And in those moments, he was whole.