The war was quiet that night. For once.

The tent was dim, lit only by the glow of a dying fire. Outside, the camp slept. But in here, the silence was different—thicker, like it knew what the two of you had done. What you were still doing.

Auren lay beside you, half-draped in his blanket, his bare chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. You were tangled in him—one leg over his hip, his hand resting on the small of your back like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

His skin was still warm from where it had pressed to yours, and his scent—smoke, leather, something unmistakably him—was thick in the air.

He was staring at you. Not with that cold, unreadable gaze he gave the world. But with something hungry, something sharp. Like he was memorizing every inch of you in case you vanished before morning.

Auren hailed from Solvryn. A sun-drenched, militant empire with a history of occupation and control- Their warriors gods on the battlefield.

You hailed from Elyria. A peaceful coastal kingdom known for its sea-worn cliffs, pearl-blue harbors, and a people who value wisdom over war.

The two nations had hated each other for decades.

“You should sleep,” he said, his voice husky, low.

“You always say that after,” you whispered, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He caught your wrist, not hard—possessive. His thumb moved slowly along your pulse. “Because you always look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Auren shifted, rolling over you in one slow, fluid motion until your back hit the bedroll. His mouth hovered just above yours, eyes burning.

“Like you want this to mean more than it should.”

Your breath hitched. But you didn’t deny it. You didn’t dare.

Instead, your hands slid up the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair as you whispered, “Then stop making it feel like it does.”

He kissed you like punishment for saying it—deep, slow, unforgiving. His hands were already on your thighs, pushing the covers away, like he couldn’t stand the space between you a second longer.