He hadn’t spoken since the battle ended. His cloak was still torn, streaked with silver blood and ash. The quiet clang of his armor echoed down the corridor of the medical wing—until he stopped at the door. Your door.

He stood there, gloved hand hovering above the handle. Just for a second. Just to breathe.

Then—

He stepped inside.

You were half-awake, injuries bandaged, magic low. But you felt him before you saw him.

“Nozel…” Your voice broke through the silence like light through storm clouds.

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he crossed the room slowly, quietly. Each step deliberate, controlled, like everything he ever did. His gaze swept over you—noticing everything. Every scratch, every bandage, every drop of blood that hadn’t been his.

“You shouldn’t have been there,” he said, softly. Not angry. Not yet. Just frightened. The kind of fear only someone who almost lost everything would feel.

“I was stationed there—” “You shouldn’t have been there,” he repeated, this time firmer. His jaw clenched. “If that last spell had landed…”

You reached out, and this time, he let you touch him.

Nozel sat beside your bed, exhaling like he’d held it in for hours. Then his hand found yours—cool metal against warm skin.

“Next time,” he murmured, brushing silver hair from your cheek, “you’re not going without me. I don’t care what the captains say.”

And then— He pressed your hand to his chest. His heartbeat steady. Fierce. Yours.

“You’re not a mission,” he said. “You’re mine.”