Two nights passed in a blur of heat and blankets. The suite stayed dim and warm, curtains drawn against the cold, and trays of simple food appeared and disappeared as if by magic. Elias drifted in and out of shallow sleep, his body adjusting, the ache in his belly softening from a fever to a low, insistent hum. Whenever he surfaced enough to notice, Victor was there, reading, working, or simply sitting at the edge of the bed with a hand at the back of his neck, the slow circle of his thumb anchoring him without a word.
On the second night, he woke fully.
The room was dark except for a slice of silver light sneaking past the heavy drapes. The air smelled of tea gone cold, damp winter stone beyond the windows, and Victor's darker spice threaded through everything. His heat had settled into a heavy warmth under his skin; the sheets clung to his hips, damp from sleep.
