The Fragile Line

by Narnura

Summary:

When love runs deep, words can cut deeper. A night meant for tenderness unravels into distance, leaving insecurities and unspoken fears in its wake. Yet even through silence and pain, their hearts reach for each other—across the fragile line between breaking and holding on.

He was late—again. His jacket hung off one shoulder, his steps sharp but uneven, and Alec could smell it before he could stop himself: a faint perfume, not Magnus’s, clinging to his lapels. Sweet, expensive, unfamiliar.

Chapter 1

The loft door swung open long past midnight, hinges squealing faintly. Alec was on the couch, his bow dismantled on the coffee table in front of him, though he hadn’t touched a single piece in the last hour. His shoulders stiffened when Magnus finally walked in.

 

He was late—again. His jacket hung off one shoulder, his steps sharp but uneven, and Alec could smell it before he could stop himself: a faint perfume, not Magnus’s, clinging to his lapels. Sweet, expensive, unfamiliar.

 

It hit Alec in the chest like a strike. He knew it didn’t mean anything. He knew Magnus’s life brushed up against glittering strangers, meetings and negotiations that stretched deep into the night. Still, his throat closed around the sour ache of jealousy. He hated himself for it. Hated his thoughts, hated the ink-black runes crawling over his skin, reminding him of everything he wasn’t and everything Magnus had lived without.

 

“You’re still up,” Magnus said, voice low, tired.

 

Alec nodded stiffly. “Yeah.”

 

Magnus shed his jacket, draping it over a chair, rings clinking as he tugged them off one by one. He didn’t look at Alec. Didn’t explain. The perfume hung in the air, unbearable.

 

“Rough day?” Alec asked finally. His voice cracked, but he forced it steady.

 

Magnus poured himself a drink instead of answering. “You could say that.”

 

Alec waited, pulse quickening. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

Magnus’s jaw flexed as he downed the glass. “No.”

 

The word was sharp, final. Still, he hadn’t looked at Alec—not really.

 

Alec’s heart clenched. He wanted to drop it, to let Magnus breathe, but silence pressed heavier than any blade. “Magnus… I want to help. Even if it’s just listening.”

 

That finally got Magnus’s eyes on him—glittering, cold, guarded. Alec flinched at the distance in them, the way they cut sharper than words.

 

“Alexander, not tonight.”

 

It should have ended there. Alec should have nodded and let it go. But he couldn’t. Not with the perfume still stinging his senses, not with the runes crawling on his skin like they marked him as less.

 

“Sometimes it feels like you don’t want me to know you at all,” Alec said, the words tumbling before he could stop them.

 

Magnus’s brow arched, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

 

“I’m not asking for everything,” Alec hurried, shame heating his neck. “But you shut me out. You come home late smelling like—” He cut himself off, jaw tight. “Like I don’t matter. Like I’m just… temporary.”

 

The air seemed to crackle, Magnus’s magic sparking faintly around his fingertips. “That’s absurd.”

 

“Is it?” Alec’s voice rose, months of quiet fear spilling free. “You’ve lived for centuries, Magnus. You’ve had… so many. And me? I’ve only had you. Just you. Maybe I’m expecting too much, but it feels like I’m the only one holding on.”

 

The words hurt coming out. They hurt worse echoing in the loft.

 

Magnus’s face shuttered, every line of him tense. “You are not a fling. But if you’re going to question my every step the moment I walk through the door—”

 

“I’m not questioning you!” Alec snapped. “I just want to matter to you as much as you matter to me.”

 

Alec pushed on, anger covering the fear in his throat. “You don’t tell me anything. I don’t know where you go, who you’re with. I feel like I’m asking for too much just wanting to know. Maybe I am. Or am I just one more name in a very long list of people who don’t matter enough to be told the truth?”

 

The jab landed. Magnus straightened, wounded pride flickering in his gaze. “Careful. You don’t want to pick a fight you can’t win.”

 

Alec felt heat rise to his face, shame burning. So I was right. I’m the one reaching too far, expecting too much.

 

“This isn’t about winning. It’s about not feeling like I’m second place in my own relationship.”

 

The silence stretched taut, ugly. Neither wanted to back down.

 

Then Magnus snapped, words spilling before he could stop them. “If you’re that afraid of being left behind, perhaps you should think about why you’re so insecure. Don’t come running to me the next time you get hurt. Handle it yourself.”

 

Alec flinched, the words cutting deep. He forced his voice flat, cold. “Fine. I won’t. You’re too busy with your exes anyway.”

 

The second the words left him, regret burned through him. Magnus froze, fury and hurt flashing in his eyes. Alec couldn’t bear it. He grabbed his jacket and stormed out, the slam of the door reverberating like a wound.

 

* * * * *

 

Magnus stood where Alec had abandoned him, hands trembling at his sides. Fury crackled in his veins, too bright, too sharp—born not of Alec’s words but of his own.

 

He replayed them anyway, each one cutting deeper. You don’t tell me anything. Maybe I’m just one more name in a very long list… Too busy with your exes anyway.

 

Magnus shut his eyes, jaw clenched tight. How dare Alec—how dare anyone—reduce him to that list. Didn’t Alec know he wasn’t like the rest? That Magnus had spent centuries locking people out only to open the door for him?

 

But he had said it, hadn’t he? The one thing he could never take back. Don’t come running to me the next time you get hurt.

 

The words hung in the air like poison.

 

Magnus yanked a hand through his hair, pacing, heart hammering against his ribs. He hadn’t meant it. Not for a second. If his boy were hurt—if Alec even stumbled—Magnus would burn the world to ash to save him. And yet, he had thrown those words like daggers.

 

He glanced toward the chair where Alec had been sitting moments ago. Empty. Too empty. The perfume from that wretched councilwoman still clung faintly to his jacket, a mocking reminder. He should have told Alec right away where he’d been, should have explained that the roses on his coat weren’t from a lover, weren’t from anyone that mattered. But the negotiations had gone to hell, his temper was thin, and Alec’s questions had pressed on wounds Magnus hadn’t realized were so raw.

 

And so he’d lashed out.

 

Magnus pressed his fingers to his temples, the weight of centuries pressing down. Alec didn’t see it, not really—that it wasn’t his insecurity that made Magnus withdraw. It was Magnus’s own terror. Because every time Alec asked for more, Magnus wanted to give it. Wanted to hand him centuries, scars, failures, all of it. But if Alec ever walked away, if he ever decided he couldn’t bear the burden—Magnus would unravel. He couldn’t survive that.

 

He dropped onto the couch, jacket still clutched in his hand. The perfume stung his nose, cloying and sweet. And then—his eyes caught on the table.

 

Two plates sat waiting, food carefully set out, candles burned low. A bottle of wine stood uncorked, two glasses half-filled as if Alec had been too nervous to pour all the way. A simple meal—pasta, charred just a little at the edges the way Alec always did when he tried—but plated with care, the napkins folded neatly beside. In the center, a small vase held fresh tiger lilies, their bold orange petals striking even in the dim light. Magnus’s favorite. Alec must have gone out of his way to find them.

 

Magnus blinked, throat tightening as realization crashed over him. Alec had cooked. Alec had waited.  The dishes sat untouched, long gone cold. And when he finally came home, he hadn’t even looked at him.

 

The date seared into his mind, merciless and unrelenting. Six months. Today had marked six months since they’d first stepped across that fragile line from strangers into something more. Half a year since Alec had first stumbled into his loft, nervous but steady, letting Magnus kiss him on the balcony after a mission gone wrong. Six months since that quiet night when Alec—barely eighteen, still shouldering a secret that could shatter his world—had whispered yes when Magnus asked if they were doing this, if they were together.

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Alec had admitted back then, voice trembling in the low light. “But… I want this. I want you. Just… tell me I’m not a mistake.”

 

Magnus had sworn he never would—never let Alec believe he was a mistake, never let that fragile trust shatter in his hands. Alec had looked at him that night with eyes stripped of armor, offering his heart as though it was the most dangerous thing he could give.

 

Since then, Alec had split his time between The Institute and the loft, slipping in quietly on late nights or early mornings. Magnus had long ago woven wards that bent for Alec alone, letting him cross the threshold as if it were his own home. And Magnus had told him, in the softest hours of their first night together, when every barrier had finally fallen, You belong here, Alexander.

 

Alec had gasped his name, raw and breathless, as if Magnus’s vow had sunk deeper than touch ever could. In that trembling trust, Magnus knew Alexander Lightwood was the only home he’d ever need.

 

And now, staring at the cold meal left waiting for him, Magnus felt the weight of that trust like iron. Alec hadn’t said a word, hadn’t demanded Magnus notice. He’d simply prepared something quietly, something thoughtful, something… them.

 

And Magnus had ruined it.

 

For the first time in decades, Magnus Bane—the great, unshakable High Warlock of Brooklyn—felt something perilously close to fear.

 

Because he wasn’t sure Alec would come back.

 

* * * * *

 

The night air hit him sharp and cold, but it wasn’t enough to cool the fire burning in his chest. Alec’s boots struck the pavement harder than he meant to, every step carrying the echo of Magnus’s voice.

 

Magnus’s words chased him, louder than the pounding in his chest. Don’t come running to me the next time you get hurt. Handle it yourself.

 

The sentence looped like poison. Magnus hadn’t meant it—he couldn’t have meant it—but that didn’t matter. Alec had heard it. He had felt it. And he couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he was the one who had expected too much all along.

 

He tugged his jacket tighter around himself, heat prickling at his eyes. Maybe Magnus was right. Maybe Alec’s need to know—where Magnus was, what he was doing, who he was with—was just insecurity. Maybe he was clinging too tightly to something that wasn’t built to last.

 

Second place in my own relationship. His own voice mocked him. He hated himself for saying it aloud, hated that it had sounded so small, so needy. And Magnus had looked at him like he was being ridiculous, like Alec didn’t understand the rules of a game everyone else seemed to know.

 

He swallowed hard, shame crawling hot under his skin. He hated himself for lashing out, for saying the thing he knew would wound Magnus deepest. Too busy with your exes anyway. The second it had left his mouth, he’d wanted to claw it back.

 

But wasn’t there truth in it? Alec hated himself for thinking so. For letting his own insecurities twist what he knew of Magnus — generous, complicated, infuriating Magnus — into something cruel. Alec had never wanted to be jealous. He never wanted to be small like that.

 

Still, he couldn’t stop the thoughts. He’d seen the perfume clinging to Magnus’s jacket, felt it in his throat like poison. He thought of the centuries Magnus carried behind him, a list of lovers long enough to make Alec feel like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s life. A boy painted with runes, reaching for something too bright to hold.

 

His mind was so tangled he didn’t even notice until he reached for his belt that his stele wasn’t there. His bow, too—he’d left them in his rush to get out. He swore under his breath, but the thought of going back, of facing Magnus’s cold silence or sharp tongue, was unbearable. He kept walking.

 

The streets were quiet, only the hush of wind through alleyways and the faint glow of streetlamps. Too quiet.

 

The prickle at the back of his neck came a second too late.

 

A shadow moved—then pain exploded across his ribs as something slammed into him, knocking him against a wall. Alec’s breath left him in a rush, his hand flying uselessly to where his stele should have been. Empty.

 

Damn it.

 

Claws raked across his shoulder, hot blood spilling fast. He lashed out with brute strength, catching the demon across the jaw, but it wasn’t enough. His training screamed through his head, his instincts sharp as ever—but he was already at a disadvantage. No bow. No runes.

 

Another blow landed, this one across his chest, ripping deeper than the first. His knees buckled.

 

His hand brushed against something at his boot. His dagger.

 

Alec gritted his teeth, ignoring the searing pain as the demon lunged again. He twisted, every muscle screaming, and drove the blade up under its jaw with a fierce, practiced strike. Black ichor sprayed, the demon collapsing with a screech before dissolving into smoke.

 

Alec staggered back against the wall, vision swimming. His dagger clattered from his hand, slick with his own blood.

 

He thought of Magnus—of the perfume clinging to his coat, of the cold anger in his eyes, of words Alec wished he could take back. He thought of the untouched dinner on the table he hadn’t even told Magnus about, the candles that would burn out alone. Their six-month anniversary. Did Magnus even realize? Or did he even care? The thought curled bitterly in Alec’s chest, hurting more than the wound itself.

 

Then through the haze, Magnus’s words came again, brutal and cold.

 

Don’t come running to me the next time you get hurt. Handle it yourself.

 

His hand fumbled weakly for his phone. For a moment, he thought of calling Magnus. But the words echoed sharper than the pain tearing through his body, and his thumb hesitated.

 

And in that heartbeat, Alec realized he might never have the chance to say those three words—words that had been burning in his chest, waiting for the right moment, the right quiet between them. I love you. He would never get to say it, and maybe it didn’t matter anymore. Magnus would never know.

 

Still, instinct won. Alec’s bloodied fingers pressed a number before the darkness surged. The phone slipped from his grasp as his body sagged to the ground, the screen glowing faintly beside him.

 

* * * * *

 

The loft was too quiet without Alec.

 

Magnus paced, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, the silence pressing in on him like a punishment. He tipped the glass back, but the liquor did nothing to burn away the bitter taste in his throat.

 

The untouched dinner across the table mocked him with its quiet reminder. Six months, and he’d ruined it with sharp words and colder silences.

 

He dragged a hand across his face, exhaustion burning in his eyes. He told himself Alec just needed space. He’d storm, pace, let the fury burn itself out, and come back when the air wasn’t thick with poison between them. But then Magnus’s gaze caught on the coffee table—where Alec’s bow lay dismantled, his stele tossed carelessly beside it, forgotten in the heat of anger.

 

Magnus’s chest tightened. Alec never left without his gear. Never.

 

A sick feeling twisted low in his stomach. He should have gone after him the moment the door slammed, should have called him back—I didn’t mean it, Alexander, stay—should have pinned him against the wall, kissed the fight out of both their mouths instead of letting pride dig the wound deeper. Instead, Magnus had sat here convincing himself that space was safer than another clash.

 

Now unease curled like smoke through his veins. He was just reaching for his phone when it rang.

 

The screen lit up with Alec’s name.

 

Magnus exhaled, relief flooding him so fast it made his knees weak. Alec was calling him. Alec was choosing him. Maybe he wanted to apologize, maybe not—but Magnus wanted to. And Alec was reaching out, and that was enough. A wry smile tugged at his lips as he answered.

 

“Took you long enough, Alexander—”

 

But it wasn’t Alec’s voice that filled the line.

 

“Magnus—it’s me.” Isabelle’s voice shook, raw with panic. “Alec. He’s—he’s hurt. Badly. We need you now.”

 

The glass slipped from Magnus’s hand, shattering across the floor.

 

 

Chapter 2

Magnus didn’t remember crossing the distance, only the tearing sound of his magic as he opened a portal and stepped through.

 

The smell of blood hit him first—coppery, sharp, terrifying. Then he saw him. Alec lay crumpled on the ground, pale and drenched in red. Isabelle was crouched at his side, both hands pressing hard against a wound in his abdomen, her face streaked with sweat and fear.

 

“I’ve been trying to stop the bleeding, but it’s bad. He—he called me. Or at least, I think he did. I picked up and heard nothing but static, then I traced his signal here.” Her eyes flicked up, sharp with confusion.

 

Magnus dropped to his knees, the sight of Alec stealing the air from his lungs. Magic already crackling along his fingertips.

 

“Why did he call me when you were closer? And why the hell did he have no bow, no stele—nothing? Just this dagger.” She jerked her chin toward the blade lying inches from Alec’s limp hand, slick with ichor and blood.

 

Magnus didn’t answer Isabelle. Couldn’t. The world narrowed to Alec’s face—too pale, lips tinged with blue—as though even acknowledging her questions would break what fragile hold Alec still had on this life.

 

His hands trembled as he reached for him. The words he’d spat earlier—Don’t come running to me when you get hurt. Handle it yourself—rang like a curse in his head, brutal and unforgiving.

 

And Alec had listened. Alec had gone out into the night carrying those words like truth.

 

“Alexander,” he whispered, voice breaking as he poured healing light into the wound, desperate, frantic, terrified.  He wanted to heal him, wanted to pour every last spark of magic into knitting his skin back together, but his magic faltered against the ragged wounds. It could only stabilize, not undo the internal damage.

 

Isabelle pressed in beside him, stele slashing fast across Alec’s skin, carving an iratze and then the Amissio rune—but the marks only flared weakly before guttering out, collapsing into ash against his skin.

 

Magnus didn't need to be tell as he gathered Alec close, blood soaking hot through his coat, and with a sweep of his hand tore open a portal. The world blurred, collapsing into nothing but motion and fear, until they crashed into the harsh light of the Institute infirmary.

 

The room erupted instantly. Medics rushed forward, practiced hands already reaching for Alec—peeling back his shirt, pressing gauze to the wound, clipping leads to his chest until a monitor flared to life with an erratic, faltering rhythm. One stele moved swiftly across his skin, etching iratze, then Amissio, but the runes fizzled, refusing to take. Their voices rose in clipped orders, but all Magnus heard was the faint, shallow rasp of Alec’s breath.

 

“Severed artery—Ms. Lightwood we need the transfusion. Now!” one barked.

 

Magnus’s magic pressed against the wound, forcing every flicker of magic into Alec’s faltering pulse, but the severed artery fought him, blood spilling faster than even angelic healing could keep pace. Alec’s body was too weak, his energy drained, the glow of his runes dimming.

 

Isabelle was already moving, stele in hand, rolling up her sleeve without hesitation.

 

“Stay with me, Alexander,” Magnus begged, voice shaking. “Stay.”

 

“High warlock,” a medic urged, “we need space—”

 

“No.” Magnus’s tone cracked like a whip. “You’ll have your space when he’s stable.” His magic flared brighter, forcing a temporary seal as the medics slipped needles into Alec’s arm, connecting tubes, beginning the transfusion.

 

For a moment it was chaos—blood pooling too fast, runes sparking, Magnus’s magic tearing against the edges of what it could hold together. He was dimly aware of Isabelle gripping Alec’s hand, whispering broken pleas, her face streaked with tears.

 

Then slowly, agonizingly, Alec’s vitals steadied on the monitors. The medics carved the iratze rune over his chest again. This time, instead of flickering out, the mark glowed steady, light sinking into torn flesh and holding. His chest rose in shallow, even rhythm. Still too weak, still far too pale—but alive.

 

Magnus sagged forward, forehead nearly touching Alec’s, tears slipping unchecked down his cheeks. He had to force himself not to unravel entirely, not when Alec was still fighting beneath his hands.

 

Magnus stayed by Alec’s side even as the medics worked, their stitching reinforced by the shimmering seal of his magic—temporary, but enough to hold until Alec’s weakened body could catch up, his angelic focus still struggling to knit the deeper damage. His hand never left Alec’s, thumb brushing across cold knuckles as if anchoring him to this world.

 

Isabelle hovered close, arms folded, eyes bright with unshed tears. She waited until the medics stepped back, until Alec’s breathing had steadied into a fragile rhythm, before she finally spoke.

 

“Magnus,” she said quietly, almost uncertain.

 

He didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on Alec’s face, pale and still against the infirmary bed.

 

“Why did he call me?” Isabelle’s voice wavered. “You were closer. And I thought you two were celebrating six months today. I don’t understand why he didn’t call you.”

 

Her words weren’t accusatory, but they struck like a blade through Magnus’s chest. His voice came out raw. “Because of me.”

 

Isabelle blinked. “What?”

 

“I told him… if he got hurt, not to come running to me.” The confession scraped like glass, nearly choking him. “And he– he believed me—”

 

Isabelle stared, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Oh, Magnus… what happened?”

 

Magnus shut his eyes, guilt tearing him apart. “I— I didn't even remember it was today. He never even told me—it was supposed to be a surprise, I think. He waited, and I came home smelling of perfume from that damned council meeting, acting cold, shutting him out. And when he reached for me, I pushed him away. I—” His voice broke. “I let him leave.”

 

Isabelle’s throat tightened. She remembered Alec’s shy excitement days earlier, how he’d told her he was planning something. She’d teased him, made him blush—never imagining it would end like this.

 

She looked between Magnus, shaking and broken, and Alec, pale and too still. Her heart ached for them both.

 

“Did you know,” she said suddenly, her voice low but steady, “that Nephilim only love once? I think Alec found his once, Magnus.”

 

Magnus stiffened. The words hit like a blade. They hadn’t spoken those words to each other yet, not aloud. And still, he already knew—had known for months—that his heart was irrevocably bound to Alec. What shattered him was the thought that Alec had chosen him that fully, that fiercely, when Magnus wasn’t sure he deserved it. Not with his centuries of mistakes, not with the sharp words he’d thrown tonight.

 

And yet… he loved Alec just as deeply. More than he’d ever dared to admit. Now, all he could think was how desperately he still wanted the chance to say those three words.

 

“When he wakes up, you have to tell him everything,” Isabelle pressed. “Make sure he knows he was never just another name to you.”

 

Magnus bent closer, pressing Alec’s hand to his lips, tears spilling unchecked. “I almost lost him,” he whispered, voice cracking. “And he thought he didn't matter enough and I didn’t care.”

 

“You didn’t lose him,” Isabelle said firmly, though her own voice trembled. “He’s still here. You still have time.”

 

Magnus only nodded faintly, his forehead brushing Alec’s temple. He didn’t answer again—every bit of him was fixed on the fragile rise and fall of Alec’s chest.

 

A weak groan broke the stillness, so soft Magnus almost thought he imagined it. His head snapped up, breath catching as Alec’s lashes fluttered, his brow furrowing faintly against the infirmary light.

 

“Alexander?” Magnus’s voice cracked on the name, relief and terror tangling. His hand tightened instinctively around Alec’s.

 

Hazel eyes blinked open, hazy, unfocused. They landed on Magnus first, confusion flickering across his face. He licked his lips, dry and pale, before whispering hoarsely, “Why… why are you here?”

 

The words sliced through Magnus, leaving him momentarily breathless. Before he could respond, Alec’s fingers twitched, weakly pulling his hand from Magnus’s grasp.

 

Magnus froze. His heart seemed to stop beating, his chest hollowing as if the world had been ripped out from under him.

 

From the corner, Isabelle’s eyes widened. She saw the way Alec’s gaze lingered on Magnus, torn and unsure, the way he didn’t even seem to realize she was standing there. Understanding settled heavy in her chest: Alec wasn’t asking out of spite. He truly didn’t believe Magnus would be there after what had been said.

 

Quietly, Isabelle rose from her chair. She gave Magnus one searching look—pleading, steady—before she slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.

 

Magnus remained rooted to the spot—didn’t know what to do with his hands, didn’t know how to breathe—shattered by four small words, staring at the man who was his everything and who, in this fragile moment, couldn’t see it.

 

Why are you here? The question echoed, crueler than any blade.

 

His throat worked soundlessly before he finally forced air into his lungs. “Alexander,” he said softly, as if the name alone might anchor them both. “I’m here because—because there’s nowhere else I could be.”

 

Alec’s lashes lowered, his face drawn with exhaustion and pain. “No… you said I should handle myself,” he rasped, shutting his eyes.

 

Magnus leaned forward, desperation cracking the veneer he usually wore like armor. “I didn’t mean it, Alexander. Not a word of what I said. I could never—never—tell you to face your pain alone. You are not alone. Not while I breathe.”

 

"But you did," Alec murmured, eyes still shut.

 

The words gutted him. Magnus flinched as if struck, his breath catching in his throat. He wanted to deny it, to tear the truth out of existence—but he couldn’t. Because Alec was right. He had said it, and worse, Alec had believed him.

 

His hands curled into fists against his knees, shaking. “Alexander–the perfume, the lateness—it wasn’t what you thought. It was the council. The meeting went sideways, ugly, and I walked in here reeking of roses that weren’t mine. And instead of telling you the truth, I let my temper speak for me.” His voice broke, guilt swelling hot behind his eyes. “I forgot what tonight was supposed to be. Six months, and you waited for me with dinner, and I didn’t even look at you.”

 

Tears blurred his vision. He bowed his head, voice raw. “I’m sorry. For everything. For making you feel like you didn’t matter. You’ve given me more than I’ve ever deserved, and I—I nearly lost you without telling you that.”

 

Alec squeezed his eyes shut, the words in his throat warring with the ache in his chest. Part of him wanted to push Magnus away, to tell him to go before he could be hurt again. But when he opened his eyes, the protest died on his tongue.

 

Magnus was watching him, eyes shining, fear etched into every line of his face. For the first time, Alec saw it clearly—the terror of losing him, the raw sincerity beneath the bravado. It left Alec breathless. It left him believing.

 

Slowly, his hand lifted, trembling as it pressed against Magnus’s. Magnus stilled, as if he didn’t dare breathe.

 

“You didn’t lose me,” Alec whispered, voice faint but steady, threading through the tremor in his body. Fever-bright eyes softened as they fixed on Magnus. “I’m here.”

 

Magnus’s restraint shattered. Tears spilled over, and he bowed his head, unable to mask how close he had come to losing the one thing he could never bear to lose.

 

“Hey… it’s okay. I’m okay now,” Alec coaxed weakly.

 

But nothing was okay. Not when Magnus could feel the tremor still running through him, the way Alec’s body fought the pain even now. And the truth struck like poison—Alec hadn’t told him. Hadn’t asked for help.

 

Guilt crushed down harder as Magnus cupped Alec’s hand more firmly, lifting his other hand to summon a swirl of gold. Warm light spilled from his fingertips, wrapping Alec in steady, soothing waves, dulling the edge of the tremors.

 

Alec exhaled, some of the tightness leaving his frame. His lashes fluttered, and his voice, frayed but sincere, slipped through the quiet. “Thank you.”

 

Magnus’s chest ached at the sound. Thank you, as if Alec hadn’t deserved this comfort from the very start. As if he needed permission to be cared for. Magnus pressed his forehead to Alec’s temple, eyes burning. He needed his Alexander to believe he was worthy of everything—but right now, his boy just needed to heal.

 

“Rest, Alexander. We’ll talk later, darling.”

 

Alec’s lashes fluttered, exhaustion tugging him toward sleep, but he forced his eyes open for one more moment. “Stay?” His fingers caught weakly at Magnus’s sleeve, a tether of quiet need.

 

Magnus’s heart broke anew. He kissed Alec’s knuckles and whispered, “I'm not going anywhere.”

 

The familiar warmth of Magnus’s loft wrapped around Alec like a blanket, sandalwood and spice chasing away the sterile bite of the infirmary. Magnus had carried him through the portal himself, ignoring Alec’s muttered protests that he could walk—and silencing them with a kiss that stole his breath. Isabelle and the medic had only cooed in amusement, leaving Alec flushed and flustered in Magnus’s arms.

 

Now Alec rested against the pillows of Magnus’s bed, a soft throw draped over him, while Magnus fussed quietly with a tray on the bedside table.

 

It should’ve been comforting. It was. And yet Alec’s chest tightened with something sharp and heavy.

 

Magnus poured tea with steady hands, but Alec noticed the faint tremor in his fingers, the dark circles under his eyes. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up, but his clothes were wrinkled like he hadn’t thought to change since last night. There was a weariness to him Alec rarely saw—not the showman’s fatigue after too many parties, but something stripped raw, bone-deep.

 

“Here,” Magnus said softly, setting the cup within Alec’s reach. “Chamomile. Won’t heal you, but it’ll settle the ache.”

 

Alec tried to smile, but the words in his head pressed too heavy. He took the cup anyway, letting the steam warm his hands.

 

Magnus reached for the small vase Alec had set out the night before, tiger lilies bright against the shadows of the room. He placed it carefully on the tray beside the tea. His voice, when it came, was low and rough.

“They’re beautiful. Thank you, Alexander. I ruined everything you planned… our six months. I should’ve been here, with you. Not—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, the weight of guilt dragging every word down.

 

Alec’s chest ached at the sight. He tightened his grip around the cup. “I don’t want more apologies, Magnus,” he said quietly but firmly. “Not for this—and not for earlier, before I left.”

 

Magnus stilled. His cat eyes, unguarded in this moment, lifted to meet Alec’s.

 

Alec swallowed hard. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. About your past. About your exes. That was unfair of me. I was angry—jealous. And insecure. And you didn’t deserve that.”

 

Magnus’s breath caught, his gaze softening. “You were hurting. I understand that. But I should’ve handled it better. I could’ve met you with patience, not with walls. Instead, I shut you out and said things I never should’ve.”

 

“You don’t have to carry all of it,” Alec interrupted, gaze steady. “It’s not just on you. I pushed when I should’ve trusted you. I was just… scared.”

 

Magnus lifted his head, eyes shining. “You didn’t push. You were trying to help. And I pushed you away, because—” He swallowed hard, the confession catching. “Because I’m terrified of being too much. Of laying my burdens on you and watching you decide it’s easier to leave than carry them.”

 

Alec blinked at him, baffled, as though Magnus had just spoken in another tongue. “Too much?” His voice cracked. “Magnus, you don’t have to pretend with me. Don’t you get it? I’d rather take all of you—even the heavy parts—than lose you. I’d never walk away—" A beat. A breath. Almost shy. "I love you, Magnus Bane.”

 

For a moment, Magnus could only stare, the words sinking like sunlight into a place he hadn’t realized was so cold. Then, with a sharp, broken sound, he surged forward, kissing Alec fiercely, desperately, as if to anchor himself in the truth of it.

 

Alec gasped softly but met him with equal fire, threading weak fingers through Magnus’s hair despite the pull on his stitches. The pain barely registered against the need to reassure, to hold on. When they finally broke apart, Magnus’s forehead rested against his, breath ragged.

 

“God, I love you too. I’ve been dying to say it. I didn’t want to scare you, but I do—I love you so much. You’re my everything. You’re the only one who’s ever made me want a future, not just live in the past." A beat. A breath. "You're my home. Move in with me, Alexander Lightwood.” Magnus eyes were bright, hopeful and full of love.

 

Now it was Alec's turn  staring Magnus, wide-eyed. Not because he was unsure—he’d been hoping for this, aching for it—but because hearing Magnus say the words felt like the ground had shifted beneath him. He hadn’t dared imagine Magnus would ask, not yet, not after everything. And yet here he was, giving Alec the very thing he’d been too afraid to hope for.

 

His chest clenched, relief and disbelief tangling until the only thing he could do was grab fistfuls of Magnus’s shirt and pull him close, kissing him desperately, like the answer had been written on his lips all along.

 

When he finally tore back for air, his voice was rough, uneven. “Yes. Of course yes. I thought you’d never…” He swallowed hard, eyes shining. “I’ve wanted this. I want you.”

 

Magnus exhaled like the air had been punched out of him, his forehead falling against Alec’s. Magnus closed his eyes, a shuddering breath escaping him. “…Promise me,” he whispered, almost pleading. “If you’re ever hurt—if things fall apart between us—always come to me first. No matter what. I’ll be there in a heartbeat. Because I can lose everything else, Alexander—but I can’t lose you. Not you. You hear me?”

 

Alec’s throat tightened, the words striking something deep and unshakable in him. He drew in a breath, steadying himself, then whispered with fierce conviction, “I promise. No matter what. You’ll always be the first I come to. I swear it.”

 

Magnus’s eyes opened, luminous with unshed tears. He pressed both hands to Alec’s face, holding him as if Alec’s vow was something holy, something to be guarded. “That’s all I need,” he murmured, voice raw. Then he kissed Alec with aching tenderness, as though sealing the promise between them, binding it tighter than any rune.

 

Magnus might never fully believe how much Alec needed him. And Alec might never fully silence the fear of not being enough for an immortal. But for tonight, they had this — the fragile, unspoken truth that they chose each other, even after the sharpest words.

 

And maybe that was enough.