The room was hushed, lit only by the dying glow of the hearth and the faint wash of moonlight slipping through the tall windows.

He sat on the edge of the bed, back to the door, fingers working at the laces of his shirt. The fabric peeled away inch by inch, until cool air kissed skin long accustomed to armor and concealment. He rolled his shoulders once, wincing faintly as old scars pulled—some thin and precise, others angry and uneven. Old burns. Lash marks. Claw wounds. Proof of loyalty misplaced, of punishments endured in silence, of a life lived too often on his knees before crueler men.

He reached up, gathering his hair and tying it back with a careless twist, strands slipping loose anyway. He didn’t bother fixing them.

He exhaled, running a hand over the back of his neck, as if he could rub away the memories along with the tension.

That was when the door creaked softly.

He didn’t turn right away. He already knew who it was—your presence was unmistakable, warm and steady, like a familiar flame.