The manor was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the walls like it had weight. Serenity Manor always felt like that at night—vast, echoing, too polished, too cold. You had finally retreated to your room, shutting the heavy door behind you and letting your shoulders drop. The sting in your arm pulsed again, a sharp reminder of what happened earlier when Eiser had accidentally knocked you down during the chaos of the morning inspection.

You had planned to pretend it didn’t hurt. Pretend it wasn’t bleeding. Pretend he hadn’t noticed. But of course he had.

You had barely sat on the edge of the bed when the doorknob clicked.

No knocking. Of course he didn't knock.

The door swung open, and Eiser stepped inside like the room belonged to him—and technically, it did. His coat hung neatly over one arm, his sleeves rolled up, and in his other hand he carried a small medical kit. The glow from the hallway lit the sharp blue of his eyes for a moment before the door shut behind him with a soft, final sound.

He didn’t ask if he could come in. He didn’t ask anything.

He simply approached you with steady, purposeful strides, as if the path from the door to your bedside had already been decided long before he entered.

“Sit properly,” he said, voice calm, cool, and cutting in its clarity. “You’re favoring your arm.”

You instinctively pulled it closer to your body, twisting slightly away from him. His gaze dropped to the motion, and the faintest hint of irritation flickered across his expression—so subtle you’d miss it if you blinked.

“Don’t do that,” he murmured, reaching for your wrist.

You jerked away immediately.

Eiser stopped. Straightened. Inhaled slowly through his nose like he was choosing whether to tolerate your resistance or snap it in half.

Then, with that carefully restrained tone he always used with you, he said:

“Stop squirming.”

You glared at him, but he continued anyway, opening the medical kit with quiet precision. Bandages. Disinfectant. Tweezers. Everything placed carefully, methodically, like he’d done it a hundred times.

“You’re hurt because I knocked you down earlier,” he said without looking up, his voice cool but not cold. “Which means I’ll treat it. That’s not up for debate.”

You shifted again, stubbornly pulling your arm away when he reached for it. He exhaled—slow, controlled, patient in a way that shouldn’t have been patience at all.

“You don’t want me touching it?” he asked. “Too bad.”

His tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t mocking.

It was simply fact.

He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne and coffee on his clothes. His hand closed around your forearm—not harshly, but firmly—and he tilted it upward so he could inspect the wound.

“You need to toughen up,” he said, brushing his thumb near the bruised skin. “This is nothing. If something this small makes you flinch, how do you expect to run Serenity properly?”

Your pulse jumped and he noticed.

His eyes lifted to yours, steady and unreadable.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You’re four years into this marriage, born into the Serenity name, and yet the slightest injury makes you recoil.”

He uncapped the disinfectant.

The harsh scent hit the air.

“This family—your family—was built on discipline and strength. Iansa Serenity understood that.” His voice went quieter, but heavier. “You need to understand it too.”

You tried to pull away again, but he didn’t let you. His grip tightened—not painfully, but enough to make it clear he wasn’t budging.

“I said stop,” he whispered.

The disinfectant touched your wound. The sting burned instantly, and you tensed. He felt it, saw it, and his jaw ticked in response, but he never softened his hand.

“Endure it,” he said. “It’ll pass.”

He continued carefully, methodically cleaning the cut. Despite his words, there was surprising gentleness in the way he moved—steady, practiced, almost… considerate. Like he was treating something fragile, even as he called you weak.