The wind off the cliffs had followed you inside, clinging to the stone walls of Castle Caladan like a ghost that refused to be shaken. The sky outside had already begun to dim, thick with fog and soft grey light that barely filtered through the tall windows. It smelled like salt and distant rain.

He sat on the edge of the chair near the table, his tunic darkened at the shoulders, curls damp and stuck to the nape of his neck. The sparring session had left a flush high on his cheeks, and his left wrist—carefully cradled in his lap—was beginning to swell beneath the skin.

You didn’t speak at first. Just knelt beside him on the cold floor, the open window behind you casting a flicker of warmth along your spine.

He winces as you roll the fabric of his sleeve up, gently working past the dark mark that was peaking out of his glove. The Atreides insignia is stitched neatly into the cuff, and for a second, you hesitate—so much symbolism sewn into such a simple garment.

The wrap cloth in your hand was soft from repeated use, a faded House sigil stitched into one corner. You soaked it in a bowl of warm water, steam curling faintly into the space between you. His hand trembled slightly when you reached for it, but he didn’t pull away.

Up close, you could see how tightly he’d been holding himself together—knuckles pale, brows drawn, eyes unfocused as if somewhere else entirely. Maybe still in the sparring ring. Maybe further.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you let your fingers move gently, unfastening the glove with care. His breath hitched when the leather peeled away from the raw flesh, and you exhaled softly in response, as if your steadiness could be something he leaned into.

There was a dark bloom just below the joint, deep purple and angry. You brushed your thumb along the uninjured side of his hand, grounding him.

He watched you work. Not speaking. Not flinching. Just letting you handle him as if he’d allowed himself to slip into some rare, private stillness—one he never showed to anyone else. The air between you was full of unspoken things. The weight of expectation. The ache of futures neither of you could name yet.

You wrapped his wrist in long, slow loops, the cloth warming to the heat of his skin.

Outside, the light turned silver, then blue.

When you finally looked up, Paul was already watching you.

Not with fear. Not with the sharpness he sometimes wore when he thought no one saw him.

Just the quiet recognition of someone who hadn’t known they were hurting until someone else reached for them.

He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t have to.

The silence held it all.