The stars stretched above us, endless and sharp, as if the whole sky had cracked open just for tonight.
Freya leaned against the stone railing, her hand still twined with mine. She wasn't watching me—thank the gods. Her gaze was fixed upward, lashes dark against the pale light, lips parted just enough to catch the curve of a breath.
I watched her anyway.
"You know," I murmured, "you're doing this all wrong."
Her brow arched without looking away. "Doing what?"
"Stargazing."
That got her attention. She turned, amused, the corner of her mouth curling. "And how exactly does one do it wrong?"
"You're supposed to make a wish," I said, tone deliberately casual, "pick the brightest star, pretend it's listening, whisper some foolish hope into the void."
Her smile widened faintly, soft but sharp. "That sounds exactly like something you'd mock me for."
I smirked. "I would. Which is why you should try it."
