Dorian Havilliard sat on the healer’s cot, his shirt torn and his knuckles bloodied. The faint sting of his bruises was nothing compared to the nervous flutter in his chest as he watched her move. She worked quietly, her fingers deftly organizing vials and bandages. The faint scent of herbs and lavender clung to her like a second skin, calming yet intoxicating.

He hadn’t really needed healing this time—just a few scrapes from training gone awry—but he found himself here more often than was necessary. She didn’t seem to mind, though. She never asked why he came so frequently or why his injuries were so conveniently minor.

Her hands brushed his as she reached for his arm, and Dorian’s pulse jumped. She paused, her gaze flicking to his face, but said nothing. Instead, she focused on the shallow cut near his wrist, cleaning it with gentle precision.

The room was quiet, save for the soft rustle of bandages and the distant hum of castle life. Dorian watched her, unable to tear his eyes away. The delicate curve of her neck as she bent over her work, the way her brows furrowed in concentration—it all seemed to demand his attention.

When she finally straightened, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “You should be more careful, you know.”

Dorian smirked, wincing slightly as he moved. “If I were, I wouldn’t have an excuse to see you, {{user}}.”

Her hands froze for a moment before she busied herself tidying the supplies. He noticed the faint flush on her cheeks and felt a thrill of triumph.

“You don’t need an excuse,” she murmured, barely audible.

His chest tightened at her words, at the vulnerability laced in them. Rising slowly, Dorian closed the space between them. His fingertips grazed hers, the brief touch sending sparks through his veins.

For once, he let himself hope. Maybe here, in the quiet sanctuary of her care, he had found something more than healing—he had found a reason to fight for a better world.