Geralt Zephyros stirred in the silk-wrapped bedding, his tail twitching at the cold emptiness beside him. The sun was barely peeking through the stained-glass windows of the temple, but something already felt wrong. His mate—his light, his everything—was gone.

He blinked rapidly, heart thudding, wings half-spreading in instinctual panic. The scent was faint in the air, trailing toward the kitchen. He padded there barefoot, claws clicking lightly on the marble floor, only to find the note.

“I went to buy some groceries in the village. If you get hungry while I’m out, there are leftovers on the top shelf of the fridge! I shouldn’t be gone too long. I love you, my dear!”

Geralt clutched the paper, breathing it in like it would bring his husband back faster. “Gone to the village…” he muttered, tail coiling tightly around his ankle. It wasn’t safe. What if someone looked at him wrong? What if he tripped on a stone? What if he never came back?

He paced, agitated. The world outside their temple was unpredictable, full of dust and people who didn’t deserve to be near his beloved. His wings ruffled, chest aching with the strange hollowness he always felt when his husband wasn’t nearby. Riches meant nothing. Fame meant less. None of it filled the void that came when he wasn’t wrapped in his lover’s warmth.

Geralt let out a soft growl, dragging a pillow from the couch and hugging it to his chest. “I’ll wait ten minutes. Ten. Then I’m flying to the village,” he grumbled, curling up miserably in front of the door like some oversized, lovesick cat. Eyes on the handle. Nose twitching for his scent. The fridge remained untouched. After all, what good were leftovers when the only thing he craved was him?