The desert shower isn’t more than a half-walled stall behind the training tent, strung with a curtain that barely hides anything, cooled only by cracked stone and a whisper of wind. You’d trained hard all day — sparring, tactics, showing a local Kael fighter how to hold his stance against a charging Wanderer without getting his chest caved in. Now the sun is setting, casting orange fire across the sky, and you're both meant to wash off before dinner.

But the water runs out.

Of course it does.

You're laughing quietly, turning the knobs again, when you hear him curse under his breath. You glance over, and Sylus is standing there — shirt half-off, hair dripping, water beading off the metal collar still locked at his throat. He’s tense. Not in that usual battle-readiness way. Something else coils tight under his skin. Something that’s been there for too long.

His voice is low. “This always happens out here.”

You tilt your head, saying something teasing — something light. But he doesn’t respond. Just stares at you for a beat too long. And then he moves.

A step forward. Then another.

The look in his eyes makes your pulse stutter — not just want, but need, years deep and barely held back.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he says.

But his hands are already on you — wet fingers curling around your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly back against the cold tile wall. You feel his chest pressed flush to yours, soaked fabric clinging between you. His breath is ragged now, uneven.

“I didn’t bring you out here for this. That’s what I told myself.”