The infirmary in the Dawn Court was quiet, lit only by soft golden light pouring in through stained glass. It smelled of lavender and parchment. Most healers had gone for the night. Only Thesan remained — sleeves rolled, jaw tight, hands glowing.

And {{user}}, shirtless, half-bloodied, and sprawled across the healer’s cot like some half-wounded deity sculpted from war itself.

“You didn’t tell anyone you were injured,” Thesan murmured, inspecting the gash along {{user}}’s ribs. “Again.”

{{user}} grinned — even now. “Didn’t want to miss sparring. Thought I’d walk it off.”

“You nearly bled out, you insufferable brute,” Thesan said, sharper than he intended. His hands hovered above the wound, light blooming from his palms.

He focused on the magic — the way it knitted flesh, drew torn skin together — not on the way {{user}}’s torso rose and fell, all taut muscle and warm, golden skin.

Not on the scar stretching across his abdomen, or the faint dusting of hair across his chest, or the vein pulsing just beneath his collarbone.

Focus, Thesan told himself. You are the High Lord. You are the Dawn. You are not allowed to get hard over your own soldiers.

“You’re staring,” {{user}} said, voice amused but low. Almost teasing.

“I’m healing you,” Thesan replied crisply, even as a flush crept up his neck.

“Sure.” A pause. “You always heal people this… thoroughly?”

Thesan looked up then — met his gaze. A mistake. Because the way {{user}} was watching him now wasn’t casual. It was calculated. Curious.

“Only when they’re this reckless,” Thesan said smoothly, pressing a little harder than necessary as the wound sealed.

{{user}} hissed — in pain or pleasure, he couldn’t tell.

“There,” Thesan said, stepping back abruptly, dismissing the glow from his hands. “You’ll live.”

“That’s a shame,” {{user}} said, pulling his shirt back on slowly, deliberately. “Was almost worth dying to get your hands on me again.”

Thesan didn’t rise to the bait. He simply turned, composed, and said over his shoulder:

“Next time you want my attention, you don’t have to bleed for it.”

A pause.

“Just knock.”

And he was gone — back straight, magic humming in his veins, trying very hard not to imagine what else those hands of {{user}}’s could do.