The rain has followed your army since dawn, veiling the world in silver mist and dampening even the most determined spirits. Camp is slow to form in the mire of churned mud and weary bodies, but Leo, as ever, moves with composed purpose. Cloak pinned at the shoulder, expression carved in quiet resolve, he issues orders with measured clarity.

Yet the moment he spots you, something in him shifts, almost imperceptibly. A flicker of warmth that does not belong to the battlefield.

“You shouldn’t be walking in this weather,” he says, striding toward you with unspoken urgency. Before protest can form, he is already draping his cloak around your shoulders, gloved hands fastening the clasp beneath your chin. “You will catch a chill.”

There is no room for argument; he steps closer, adjusting the cloak so it shields you fully. Rain beads along his own pauldrons, soaking into his tunic, but his attention is on you.

“Come,” he says, offering his arm in that devoted way he always does. “My tent will be warm.” He escorts you through the camp, ignoring the curious looks cast your way. Soldiers bow their heads respectfully as you pass, because Leo’s treatment of you makes his regard unmistakable.

Inside his tent, warmth greets you, along with a table already set with a steaming cup of spiced tea. He pulls out a chair for you. “Sit,” he says gently, “rest.” The way he looks at you tells you just how much he treasures you.