He’s turned his back to you.

Sheets pulled primly up to his chest like he’s suddenly developed a sense of Victorian modesty, even though he’d spent the better part of an hour before that sounding anything but dignified.

There’s about an arm’s length between you now. Not cold, exactly. Just enough space for him to sulk in peace.

You watch the back of his neck—the way the blonde strands are sticking up slightly at the nape, like a crown come undone. He hasn’t said anything since that last round. Just huffed, turned over, and claimed sudden exhaustion like a man recovering from battle.

You stretch a little, sore in the right places, smug in the others.

“Are you alright, or did I break you?” you ask lightly.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just lets out a long, theatrical sigh—more suited to a drawing room fainting couch than your bed. “I’m fine,” he says, voice muffled by the pillow. “Just need a moment. Or a few days.”

“You’re sulking.”

“I’m recovering.”

You grin at his back. “It’s not my fault you got cocky and—what was it? Said, ‘watch and learn’?”

He turns his head just enough to throw you a withering side glance. “That was supposed to be rhetorical.”

“And yet, here we are,” you say, scooting closer, deliberately poking a toe beneath the sheet. He flinches like you’ve electrocuted him.

“Don’t touch me,” he mutters. “I’m fragile.”

You laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm.” He closes his eyes again. “And you’re insufferably pleased with yourself.”

You trace your finger down the dip of his spine. “Only because I was right.”

He makes a noise halfway between a growl and a defeated sigh.

And still doesn’t move away.