It was deeply strange. Like the ghost of whips against his back, except there were no whips. Just your hands, soft as sifting sand, moving over him. Like he was something fragile. Mortal.

The feeling churned in his gut, twisting, wretched, like a sickness. His body knew cruelty—knives in the back, betrayal in the dark, hands that burned, that bruised, that took. Not this. Never this. The gentleness scraped against something raw in him, unfamiliar, unwanted—wrong.

And yet, he did not move. Did not rip your hand away as it dragged through his red locks, strands pooling like blood in the hollow of your lap. He felt clean beneath your touch, new in a way that repulsed him. That scared him. Like you were remaking him into something whole. Even as he lay there, body tense, waiting—waiting—for the pain that never came.

You didn’t look at him. You only stared ahead, beyond the balcony, where the desert stretched endless and quiet. The white curtains billowed in the warm breeze, catching the remnants of chaos, smoothing them into stillness. Beneath you, he remained like a cornered beast, coiled tight, ready to bite.

Still, your fingers combed through his hair, slow, steady. Undemanding.

Seth exhaled sharply, a bitter sound. “Touch me like this again, god of grief, and I will rip your hands off.”

A beat. Then lower, softer, almost desperate—

“…And if you stop, I’ll end you.”

His fingers twitched, nails biting into his palms. He turned his face into your touch.