The inn smelled faintly of salt and candle wax, the kind of place that had seen too many desperate travelers and offered them comfort anyway. After the chaos of the boat sinking, the swim to shore, and the long walk through wet sand, the room almost felt like magic—a fire already burning low in the hearth, two sets of dry clothes folded neatly on the bed as though waiting just for you.

You closed the door behind you with a tired huff, pushing damp strands of hair out of your face. “Finally,” you muttered, eyeing the fresh linen as if it were treasure. “I thought I was going to live in wet boots forever.”

Julian leaned casually against the wall, still dripping seawater and looking annoyingly unbothered, his shirt clinging to him in all the wrong—or maybe all the right—ways. “Well, that would’ve been tragic. Wet boots ruin the whole look.” His smirk deepened when he caught you glaring.

You picked up one of the clean tunics, holding it to your chest. “Okay, turn around. I’ll change first, then you can.”

He raised an eyebrow, dark hair falling into his eyes. “Turn around?”

“Yes.” You jabbed a finger toward the wall. “Other way. Now.”

Julian made a show of sighing, as though the request were a personal insult. “We’ve just survived drowning. And you don’t trust me with a little peek?”

Your cheeks warmed despite the stubborn glare you sent his way. “Not a chance.”

He pushed off the wall and crossed the room in two easy strides, standing much too close for your peace of mind. “You know,” he said, lowering his voice to a teasing drawl, “we can change facing each other too. That way we could save time.”