Summerhall smells like heat and stone and old memories that refuse to stay buried. The corridors are too clean. Too quiet. It’s the kind of place that pretends nothing ugly ever happens here.

Daeron slumps in the chair like he’s been placed there rather than seated. Boots muddy. Hair loose. Mouth cut at the corner, dried red against his lip. One of the guards lingers by the door, arms crossed, waiting to be dismissed.

Maekar doesn’t look at Daeron when he speaks. He looks at you.

“See that he doesn’t kill himself,” he says flatly. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just… final. “He won’t listen to me.”

Which is how you end up here. Caretaker by command, not choice.

The door shuts. The quiet rushes in.

Daeron laughs under his breath. A short sound. Humorless. ”Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve been promoted.”

You don’t answer. You set the basin down instead. Water sloshes, warm steam curling upward. You kneel in front of him, slow, deliberate, like you’re approaching something half-feral.

When you reach for his hand, you do it carefully.

Like he might bruise.

He flinches.

Not sharply. Not angry. Just—surprised. Like his body reacted before his mind caught up.

His fingers twitch back, then stop. Hover.

“…don’t,” he says, then exhales. Tries again. “Most people grab. Or they don’t bother at all.”

You pause. Don’t withdraw. Don’t press either. Just wait there, hand open, offering.

“That sounds exhausting,” you say quietly.

He snorts. Looks away. “You get used to it.”