The stone walls of the keep blurred as Harwin made his way through the corridors, blood still damp on his forearm. The gash from the morning’s training stung with each step, but it was a distant ache compared to the weight in his chest. The battle lust had faded, replaced by the gnawing need to be near her.

He found her in the solar, seated by the wide arched window where sunlight spilled across the floor. She glanced up from her stitching, eyes widening the moment she saw him.

“Harwin,” she breathed, rising swiftly. “You’re hurt.”

He offered a faint smile, the corners of his mouth tightening as if even that small gesture was an effort. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s never nothing with you,” she muttered, already reaching for a damp cloth from the basin nearby. He let her fuss over him, the warmth of her hands steadier than any healer’s touch.

The sting of the cloth meeting his torn skin made him hiss, but he didn’t flinch. Her fingers brushed against his wrist as she cleaned the wound, and a strange stillness settled over him.

“You shouldn’t be so reckless,” she said softly, though there was no true scolding in her tone. Just concern.

His gaze dropped to her face, tracing the familiar lines that had become a place of refuge in his mind. “I’m not reckless,” he murmured. “Not with you.”

She paused, the cloth hovering over his wound, her brows knitting together. He let out a slow breath, as if the words had drained him more than the day’s sparring.

“I just needed to see you,” he admitted, his voice raw. “I always do.”