The door creaked open, quiet as a held breath. Diomedes was careful. He was always careful, even when he was angry. Even when his words had been sharp, when his hands had curled into fists at his sides, brimming with some heat he hadn't known how to temper.

But now—now he entered slow, measured. A soldier stepping into sacred ground.

The air inside was thick, warm with the lingering scent of fever. The room was dim, dusk pooling in the corners, draped over the bed where you lay, wrapped in linen and silence. From where he stood, he could barely see your face—just the slope of your cheek, the part of your lips, the glint of sweat dampening your skin.

His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale. He’d fought wars with less restraint.

Diomedes hadn’t wanted to return. Pride. That ugly, familiar thing. It gnawed at his ribs, whispered that you would not want him here, that it wasn’t his place after what was said—after what wasn’t. But you were ill, and that mattered more than any wound his ego could bear.

So he came.

He set the basin down first, water sloshing quietly against the rim. A cloth, wrung out, cool between his fingers. He sat beside you, the bed dipping under his weight, his presence a tide lapping at the edges of your fever-drowned world.

Gently—more gently than he thought himself capable—he pressed the cloth to your forehead. You didn’t stir. Didn’t so much as twitch. Your breath was deep, steady. Asleep.

Good.

He let himself watch you then, unguarded. Let himself drink in the shape of you in the low light, the way your hair clung to your temples, the faint crease in your brow even in sleep. Even now, you looked as if you were still wrestling with something, even beyond the fever.

He swallowed, wished he could smooth that line away.

The cloth moved, brushing against your cheek, your jaw. The pads of his fingers barely ghosted over your skin, but he felt the warmth of you like a brand. Too warm. Still burning.

"You’re a damn fool,” Diomedes muttered, barely above a whisper.