The door to their home creaked open, and Damon stepped inside, his crimson cloak stiff with dried sweat and dust. The bronze of his armor bore new dents, and a gash ran deep across his shoulder, seeping slowly down his arm.

{{user}} rose at once from the hearth, her eyes narrowing as she took in the wound. She said nothing, only guided him to the bench with a firm hand. Damon lowered himself with the same obedience he carried on campaign, though the weight of exhaustion pressed heavy in his bones.

She fetched the basin, the water warm and scented faintly with crushed herbs. As she wrung the cloth and pressed it against his shoulder, he winced—not from the pain of the wound, but from the tenderness of her touch.

“You should not carry it so carelessly,” she murmured, her voice sharp but trembling at the edges. “A strike like this could have ended more than the battle.”

Damon’s lips curved faintly, though his eyes stayed fixed ahead. “If it had, Sparta would not mourn long. Another would take my place.”

She pressed the cloth harder, forcing his gaze to shift at last to her. “I would mourn,” she said, the words escaping harsher than she intended.

For a long moment, the soldier’s mask faltered. His hand rose, calloused fingers brushing her wrist with surprising gentleness. “Then I will try not to fall,” Damon replied quietly. “Not for Sparta’s sake. For yours.”