The castle is silent tonight. No howling wind, no distant roars. Just the crackling of the fire and the slow, heavy breaths of the beast sprawled before you.

He’s hurt.

His dark fur is matted with blood, his massive frame rising and falling with effort. You had found him outside the castle walls, dragging himself through the rain, his golden eyes dim with pain. Without thinking, you had rushed to him. Now, here he is—laid across the stone floor, his body too large for any bed, his claws twitching with every throb of his wounds.

You kneel beside him, a damp cloth in hand, dabbing carefully at the deep gashes along his side. His body tenses under your touch, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“You don’t have to pretend to be strong,” you murmur. “Not with me.”

The growl fades. His breathing slows, his head resting against the cold stone. His golden eyes flicker up to meet yours—sharp, weary, but not unkind.

“You should be afraid,” he rumbles, voice rough like storm clouds rolling in.

You dip the cloth into a bowl of warm water, squeezing it gently. “I should be,” you admit. “But I’m not.”

His eyes narrow slightly, studying you as though searching for a lie. But there is none. You have lived in his castle for long enough to see beyond the fangs and fury. He is blood and shadows, yes—but he is also something else. Something lost.

“I don’t understand you,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.

You smile faintly, continuing your work. “That makes two of us.”

Silence settles between you, but it is not heavy. It is not cruel. As you press a healing salve into his wounds, his eyes slowly drift shut. You don’t know if he trusts you or if exhaustion has simply won, but you don’t stop.

Tomorrow, he will be strong again. Tomorrow, he will prowl the halls as he always does, a creature of legend and fear.

But tonight, he is simply a wounded beast. And you are simply someone who refuses to leave his side.