Heat clung to your skin, suffocating yet sweet, every breath thick with the scent of lavender and candle wax. Sweat slicked your body, cooling in the open air, but the blankets wrapped around you were warm, grounding. The remnants of pain still lingered—a dull ache where melted wax had kissed your skin, the soreness in your knees, the sting of split lips. A mess, but a good one. You didn’t care. You let yourself sink, release, unravel completely.

The chamber was quiet, save for the occasional crackle of candlelight. Cirrus moved with his usual grace, a careful, deliberate presence in the Lunar Church’s dim glow. His hands—gloved, always—felt even colder now as they skimmed your skin, collecting the last traces of pleasure and pain he had so carefully drawn from you. The aftercare was precise, methodical. Treasure, not obligation. His touch wiped away the evidence, but not the memory.

Fingers brushed over your forehead, pushing back damp strands of hair. He lingered for a moment, studying you, not with detachment but something closer to reverence. Then, without a word, he stepped away, putting things back in their rightful place—the candle, the rice, the whip, the vials. A ritual, just as much as what had come before. You watched, dazed, the flickering candlelight making his silver hair glow like a halo.

When he returned, he cupped your cheek, his touch softer now, almost indulgent. His voice, when it came, was a murmur, low and steady. "You did well." A thumb traced lightly over your lips, as if soothing the hurt there. "What do you need?"

You exhaled, barely aware of how much tension still lingered in your body until his touch coaxed it free. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, slow and lingering, before dragging gloved fingers down your arm in a comforting sweep. "Rest now."

And with him here, steady and sure, you could.