Victory still clings to Ormund when he returns to your chambers, though the noise of battle has long since fallen away. You knew of his return when the maids came scurrying in, preparing a steaming hot bath for your Lord husband.

He does not address you immediately when he steps towards the bath. Already shed of his plate armour by his squire in the courtyard, his hands only need to work his tunic and trousers before be is bared for the water. All broad shoulders, toned muscles and battlescars.

When he steps into the bath, the water shifts around him, steam curling against skin still warm from battle, and at last- long last- some of the tension leaves him.

For a moment, he simply breathes. Then finally, Ormund speaks. "I feel your gaze," he murmurs without looking at you, eyes closed and his head leant back against the edge of the tub. “I am uninjured. Though I will allow you to continue your inspection with your hands if you consider my words a lie. Only if you promise to be thorough.” His lips are curled as he speaks, clearly enjoying teasing you.

The water laps softly as he shifts, one arm resting along the edge, his presence no less commanding than it likely was on the field. His eyes finally find you, and they linger on all the places a husband's eyes are allowed to linger.

“Come here,” Ormund murmurs, lifting a hand in a subtle beckon, the gesture neither impatient nor entirely gentle. “You are half a room away, and I have no mind to strain myself to look at you after a day such as this.”

Yes, because tilting his head to the side to look at you is such a strain. What a thin excuse that is.

“It would be far simpler,” he adds, voice warm and his eyes wanton, “if you joined me.”