Ares staggers into the temple, the echoes of the battlefield still ringing in his ears. Blood stains his skin, dark and sticky, smeared across his jaw and dripping from his knuckles. His chest heaves as he drags in breath after ragged breath, eyes wild, the fire of war still burning in their depths.

Then he sees you.

You move toward him, silent and steady, your face a soft glow against the flickering torchlight. Ares’ shoulders drop, some of the tension easing as you reach him. He sinks onto the stone bench without a word, his legs heavy as if the weight of the day’s violence is finally crashing down on him.

Your hands are warm as they cradle his jaw, your thumb brushing over a smear of blood just beneath his eye. Ares leans into the touch, his eyes closing, the hard line of his mouth softening. When you dip the cloth into the basin, wringing out the water, he watches you with a gaze that is both aching and grateful.

You press the cool cloth to his cheek, wiping away the blood and grime with slow, deliberate strokes. Ares exhales sharply, the sound almost a shudder. His hand lifts, wrapping around your wrist, holding you there.

“I scared them,” he murmurs, his voice rough, strained. “They looked at me like I was… like I was a monster.”

Your hand continues its gentle work, the cloth moving to the dried blood along his jaw. Ares’ eyes close again, his grip on your wrist tightening as if you’re the only anchor keeping him grounded.

“But you don’t,” he says, the words coming out as a rasp. “You never look at me like that.”

You dip the cloth again, your movements slow and soothing as you clean the blood from his knuckles, the delicate glide of your touch a balm against the sting of his wounds. Ares watches you, gaze heavy and dark, and when you press the cloth to a particularly deep cut, he hisses through his teeth, but doesn’t pull away.

“Every time,” he mutters, voice lower now, almost to himself. “Every time I come back covered in blood, you’re still here. Why?”

You kneel between his legs, the cloth trailing over his chest, wiping away the last streaks of war. Ares’ hand rises, calloused fingers threading into your hair, holding you close. His forehead drops to yours, his breath mingling with yours, hot and unsteady.

“You should hate me,” he whispers, his thumb brushing against your temple. “You should run.”

His eyes close, and for a moment, he just breathes you in — the scent of you, the feel of your hands still cradling his face, your presence soft and unyielding against the chaos raging beneath his skin.

“But you don’t,” he breathes, the words almost breaking. “And I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”