The scent of blood and smoke clung to Nyx’s leathers, the silent weight of war still draped across his broad shoulders like an unseen shroud. His siphons pulsed faintly, the last embers of spent magic glowing like dying stars. His wings, so often a symbol of might, now hung low with exhaustion. But it wasn’t the battle that hastened his return—it was what waited beyond the bloodshed. Warmth. Stillness. You.

The door shut behind him with a soft thud, and the air shifted. The tension threaded through his muscles began to unravel, his body recognizing safety, sanctuary—home. Candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting golden shadows that danced in time with the breeze whispering through the cracked window. The familiar scent of lavender wrapped around him, mingling with something sweeter, softer—undeniably you. It pulled him forward like a tether to his soul.

A bath had already been drawn, steam curling in the air, the water infused with oils meant to soothe both skin and spirit. He exhaled slowly, the breath shuddering from him as you stepped into view, eyes drinking him in with quiet concern. You said nothing. You didn’t need to.

Your hands, strong and sure, moved to unfasten the buckles of his armor. Each strap released with a whisper of leather and metal, peeling away the night’s violence to reveal bruised ribs and half-healed gashes etched into his golden skin. But your touch never faltered. There was no fear, no pity—only a fierce tenderness, the kind born from witnessing every fracture of a man and loving him anyway.

He let out a low sound as he eased into the water, the heat licking at his wounds and drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His wings trembled slightly as they relaxed along the edges of the tub. The surface rippled with your movements as you joined him, the press of your skin against his igniting a quiet, grounding heat.

Your fingers worked over his shoulders, thumbs tracing circles into tense muscles, coaxing the pain from him with every stroke. And when your hands slid into his damp hair, nails gently grazing his scalp, something broke free—a sigh, soft and unguarded. Not the sound of a warrior. Not an heir. Just a man, weary and raw, laid bare in your arms. He could simply be yours.