The sun is sinking low when you hear the steady tread of footsteps on the path. Lysandros returns from the fields, his tunic dusted with earth, his shoulders glistening with the sweat of labor. Yet the moment his eyes find you, his weariness falls away.

He stops in the doorway, silent for a heartbeat, as though taking in a vision. Then he crosses the threshold swiftly, dropping his tools aside.

“My Evadne,” he breathes, voice rough with devotion. He takes your hands, pressing them to his chest as if they were sacred relics.