The image of you fighting plays on repeat in Jayce’s mind, like a favorite scene in a film he can’t stop rewinding.

The war’s over—finally, for good, or so he prays—but he’s still stuck on you. Stuck on how damn good you looked out there, fierce and untouchable, like the chaos of battle was your natural element.

He never imagined he’d be this taken with someone. But here you are, living proof that Jayce Talis, the man who once claimed he had no time for distractions, is utterly and hopelessly infatuated.

His fingers graze the wound on your arm as he wraps it with careful precision, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his hands. A soft chuckle slips from him as he shakes his head like he’s trying to push away the thought that’s been bugging him since the fight.

He glances up at you, his eyes meeting yours, and there’s this lopsided grin on his face—part amusement, part something softer. “You know, you never told me you could fight like that,” he says, voice playful but tinged with admiration. “I mean, I couldn’t take my eyes off you… Who knew someone could make stabbing a guy in the chest look so damn good?”

He goes back to tending your wound, his hands steady and practiced now. The room is still, save for the faint crackle of the hearth in the corner, and he’s grateful—for the quiet, for the fact that you’re here, mostly in one piece.

Mostly.

Jayce exhales, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit as he finishes tying the bandage. “You scared me out there, you know,” he admits, his tone softening, almost reluctant. “But I guess I should’ve known better. You’re tougher than anyone I’ve ever met.”

He leans back slightly. “Still, maybe next time, give me a warning before you decide to single-handedly win a war. I need to prepare for all the heartbreak.”