The sheets feel stiff against your skin, too hot in some places, too cold in others. Every slight movement sends a jolt of pain up your shoulder, a sharp reminder of the spear that had found its mark.

You stay still, half because of the ache, half because you don’t have the strength to move. The room is quiet, except for the occasional creak of the bed and the soft crackle of the fire.

He’s there, of course.

Always there.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching, hands folded over his knees, eyes flicking between your face and the bandages wrapped tight around your shoulder. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. Doesn’t hover.

But you feel him, the heat, the presence, the tension coiled like a spring.