The sun rose on the fourth day with a brutal, uncompromising clarity. The mist of the previous night had burned off early, leaving the air heavy with the scent of salt and drying hibiscus. Inside the hut, the silence was no longer heavy; it was hollow.
Ren lay on his side, his body feeling like it had been hollowed out and filled with lead. Every muscle, from the base of his neck to the tips of his toes, throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. The bamboo bed, once a place of rest, now felt like an altar where he had sacrificed the last remains of his dignity.
He didn't need to look down to know he was covered in the evidence of the night. He could feel the drying stickiness on his thighs and the heavy, sluggish sensation deep in his gut—the unmistakable physical echo of Cilian's knotting.
The 'Nectar' had finally left his system, replaced by a cold, crushing wave of post-coital reality.
