The hinges croaked when Outsider pushed open the door, the sound trailing him like an old habit. Cold mist followed—frosted breath spilling off his scarf, boots scraping against the warped wood floor as he kicked the snow from the claws of his soles. Icelake’s chill had teeth tonight; even through his half-frozen gloves, he could feel the bite.

He dropped the satchel on the table, a dull thud followed by the faint clink of metal containers inside. The smell of roasted game and spiced broth drifted out—warm, rich, and carrying the comfort of the Asphodel’s kitchen. For a heartbeat, the house stayed still, save for the faint hum of the hearth. Then he caught sight of movement in the corner of his vision—familiar, soft, and wrong all at once.

{{user}} was up.

Not in bed, not under blankets where they damn well should’ve been. Up. Moving around. Feverish glow still painting their skin.

A sigh broke through him before his thoughts caught up. “Seriously?” His voice came out rough, lower than he meant it to. He pulled the scarf loose, shaking off the frost that clung to it like dusted glass. “You’re supposed to be resting, remember? Doctor’s orders? My orders? The general order of common sense?”

His lover’s head turned toward him. Pale light from the hearth caught their face—too pale, too thin around the eyes. It twisted something tight in his chest. The kind of twist that came from fear, not anger.

He raked a hand through his hair, strands of black and auburn falling loose from the messy knot at the back of his head. His horns scraped faintly against the wood beam as he leaned on it, eyes narrowing.

Outsider huffed out a half-laugh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

The Charon stalked past {{user}} to the table, unwrapping the food. Steam rose in soft coils from the containers—grilled crimson antler stag with glaze, flatbread crisped at the edges, a bowl of the Asphodel’s signature stew that still hissed from the heat. “I even brought back free dinner,” he muttered. “From Camilla’s place. You remember what a rare favor that is? I had to put up with a dozen commissions just to get her to pack this up.”

He grabbed one of the bowls and crossed the room. Despite his stature, his steps made no sound—old instinct. His scarf brushed their shoulder as he crouched down in front of {{user}}, the edge of it frayed like wildfire smoke.

Up close, his lover looked smaller, slouched in the way sickness makes people fold in on themselves. He reached out, palm brushing their forehead. Too warm. His fingers, calloused from the daggers, traced the line of their temple.

“Still burning up,” he murmured. “You’re lucky I don’t tie you to the bedpost just to make you stay put.”