The door opened.
And there, once again, stood Killian.
Perfect posture, perfect calm, perfect timing, like the universe had placed him on a personal mission to interrupt them at the most humiliating moments possible.
He stopped dead in the doorway. His silver gaze moved once from Dax's arm, still very much around Chris's waist, to the towel barely hanging on to its job, to the pair of half-closed lips and flushed faces and then up, toward the ceiling, like a man trying to see God.
For a full second, no one breathed.
Killian exhaled very quietly. "Your Majesty," he said finally, voice cool as glass. "Mr. Malek."
Chris's brain went blank. "Killian."
"You're greeting His Majesty, I see." Killian continued smoothly, as though they were discussing travel logistics instead of this.
Dax didn't move. Of course he didn't. His hand was still resting low on Chris's back, fingers splayed in a way that made denial physically impossible.
