The scent of iron still clung to him, thick and metallic, not entirely washed away by the ride home or the sting of cold wind against his cheeks. His leathers were torn at the shoulder, crusted with dried blood that had once pulsed hot from a wound he barely remembered receiving. The adrenaline had numbed it then—now it ached with a dull, sobering throb that reminded him he was not invincible.

(Not that he had ever believed he was. But sometimes the battlefield convinced you otherwise, just for a moment.)

He dismounted with more grace than he felt, boots heavy on the stone, eyes flicking to the low light spilling from beneath the door. You were awake. Of course you were. You always were. Even when he wished you weren’t—when he wished he could slip inside like a ghost, hide the bruises, the gashes, the part of him that war kept trying to carve away.

But you didn’t let him. And gods, he was grateful for that, even if he never knew how to say it.

He pushed open the door and there you were—barefoot and furrow-browed, a basin of water already steaming beside a stack of linen. You hadn’t said a word, but your gaze swept over him like a blade, cataloging every split knuckle and ragged edge with the precision of someone who had done this before. Too many times.

He sat without protest.

(He would have knelt, honestly. If you’d asked. For you? Always.)

Your fingers were steady. Cleaner than his. Gentler, too. He winced only once when you found the shoulder wound, and you muttered something under your breath he half caught—scolding, perhaps. Or worried. You always walked the line between both like it was a tightrope.

The cloth soaked with warm water touched his skin, and he hissed through his teeth. “I deserve worse,” he muttered then, a rasp more than a voice. And it was true. For charging first. For bleeding again. For not knowing how to come home whole.

You didn’t answer. You just kept cleaning. Kept touching him like he wasn’t broken, like he wasn’t failing at this—at peace, at love, at surviving with grace. (How did you do that? How did you make him feel like something still beautiful despite all the things he’d done?)

There were scars already healed on his ribs. You knew them by name. The long one from the siege. The pale one from the river ambush. Each was a marker in a story he didn’t like to tell, but you remembered every page. And you never asked him to forget.

Your hands stilled at his jaw. He hadn’t realized there was blood there, too—just a smear across the cheekbone. Yours now. Your thumb brushed it away like it was a stray leaf in his hair.

He let his eyes close. Because if this was softness, he’d surrender to it every time.

He hadn’t always known how to let himself be held. He had spent too long trying to be made of armor and command. But your touch wasn’t a demand. It was a reminder. That someone still saw the man beneath the blade. And gods help him, he wanted you to keep seeing him.

When your hand paused at his temple—fingertips lingering in the dark mess of hair matted from the helm—he opened his eyes.

“You always look at me like I’m worth saving,” he said, barely audible. “Even when I come back looking like this.”