Chapter 45: Spoiled

Valdor watched until Amor had eaten several spoonfuls, then moved around the bed. At first, Amor paid him little attention. He was busy deciding whether the roasted parsnips tasted sweet enough to count as something other than punishment. Valdor eased himself onto the lower edge of the mattress near Amor’s feet, careful not to jar the bed. Then he stopped.

"May I?"

Amor looked up.

"May you what?"

"Touch your injured foot."

The question caught him mildly off guard, though the answer seemed obvious. Valdor had adjusted his ankle several times already, and the pillows beneath it were beginning to feel stiff.

"Yes."

Valdor nodded. He lifted the blanket away from the injured foot with deliberate care, exposing the bandaged ankle and the pale skin above it. Instead of merely shifting the limb to improve the pillow arrangement, he slid one broad hand beneath Amor’s calf and moved the foot slowly from the stack of cushions onto his thigh. The position placed Amor’s leg across Valdor’s lap. Amor paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. Valdor’s hands settled near the ankle.

At first, the touch was barely there. His fingers traced the area around the swelling without pressing into it, mapping heat, tension, and tenderness through careful contact. He did not touch the worst of the injury directly. Instead, he worked around the muscles of the foot and lower calf, light enough that Amor wondered whether he was doing anything at all.

"What are you doing?"

Amor asked. Valdor glanced up.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Do you want more pressure?"

Amor lowered the spoon.

"Are you trying to massage me?"

Valdor frowned.

"Mah-ssage?"

"The thing you are doing."

"In Blackstone, when a warrior wounds muscle or twists a joint, we use pressure and movement around the injury to ease stiffness and draw warmth back. Not where the damage is fresh. Around it."

"That is a massage."

Valdor considered the word, then looked back at Amor’s foot.

"Am I doing it wrong?"

"No."

"I have not touched a noble’s body before."

Amor stared at him. Then he laughed softly.

"You have carried me from a garden path, lifted me into carriages, wrapped my wrist, held my hand through a royal hearing, fed me cake, carried me to bed, and placed my palm over your heart. What do you consider touch if not those actions?"

Valdor’s expression remained serious.

"You are the first noble I have touched."

The answer struck differently than Amor expected. His laughter faded into warmth. The room seemed to narrow around them, leaving only the tray, the low lamplight, and Valdor sitting at his feet with complete seriousness while learning how to care for him in yet another way. Amor suddenly found it difficult to look directly at him. He returned his attention to the plate.

"You may press a little more along the arch."

Valdor obeyed immediately.

His thumbs moved with careful pressure along the sole of Amor’s foot, avoiding any movement that might disturb the injured ankle. Amor inhaled at the sensation, surprised by how quickly the tension loosened. The warmth of Valdor’s hands seeped through him in slow, steady waves.

"Like that?"

Valdor asked.

"Mmm, yes."

"More?"

"A little."

He adjusted. Amor ate another bite of chicken, then pointed with the fork.

"Ngh, not there. Higher."

Valdor shifted his grip.

"No, not the bandage."

"I know."

"Just, hngh, below it."

"There?"

Amor’s eyelids lowered slightly.

"Haah, yes. Right there feels amazing!"

Valdor worked with the concentration of a leader preparing an ambush route through dangerous terrain. Every instruction was received, analyzed, and executed precisely. If Amor said lighter, the touch lightened. If he said firmer, Valdor increased pressure by careful increments until Amor sighed.

It was absurd.

It was luxurious.

It was dangerously easy to enjoy.

Amor looked down at his dinner and nearly laughed again, though the sound caught inside his chest as something softer. In another life, he had counted scraps, slept with one eye open, and learned to measure survival in mouthfuls that could be stolen. In this life, he sat in a silk-covered bed while an impossibly handsome Blackstone warrior who had asked permission to court him massaged his foot and refused to let him have dessert until he finished his vegetables. The contrast was almost unbearable.

A contented sigh escaped him. Valdor stopped immediately.

"What is wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You sighed."

"People sigh when they are content."

Valdor studied him as though verifying the claim.

"You are con-tent?"

Amor looked toward him. The question was so earnest that teasing felt impossible.

"Yes..."

He said.

"I am very happy right now."

Valdor’s hands remained around his foot, but his attention lifted fully to Amor’s face.

"I’m in bed large enough to hold a banquet and soft enough to be mistaken for fresh bread, I have warm food, my ankle hurts less, and an extremely handsome man is fussing over me as though I might perish if I skip one carrot..."

Amor smiled, softer than his words.

"It is difficult not to be happy..."

Valdor’s ears darkened. Amor’s smile deepened.

"In fact, I am almost glad I sprained my ankle."

The warrior’s expression changed at once.

"No."

"I said almost."

"No."

"If I had not, we might not have become this close so quickly."

Valdor’s hands stilled. His gaze dropped to where Amor’s foot rested upon his thigh. The intimacy of the position reached him all at once, perhaps stronger because Amor had named it. His touch had remained practical in intention, but the result was undeniably close:

Amor eating from a tray while his leg lay across Valdor’s lap in his bedroom on his bed, the warrior’s hands wrapped around his bare foot with the quiet permission of courtship.

’Had I gone too far?’

The thought struck sharply. He began to withdraw. Amor noticed immediately.

"D-don’t stop...."

Valdor paused.

"It feels good..."

Amor said, then seemed to realize the sentence might sound more revealing than intended. Color touched his cheeks, but he continued.

"And... I like it."

Valdor looked at him. The words entered like a second permission. Not merely out of tolerance or mere politeness. Amor liked the touch. Amor liked his touch.

Valdor nodded once, still shy in that almost invisible way that showed mostly through red warmth near his ears and down the back and sides of his neck and the careful lowering of his gaze. He resumed the massage, though the first few movements were gentler than before. Amor guided him back to the previous pressure with a small movement of his toes.

"Mmgh, more."

Valdor obeyed.

The meal continued in that strange, tender rhythm. Amor ate while Valdor worked warmth into his foot and calf, occasionally pausing to pass him bread, refill water, or ensure the tray remained stable. Valdor never forgot the vegetables. Each time Amor attempted to maneuver around them toward the chicken, the warrior’s gaze shifted to the plate, and Amor grudgingly returned to the required portion.

"You are enjoying your authority! Humph!"

Amor accused.

"I am following the shaman’s instructions."

"Doctor Haverin’s? You did not like him this morning. Glaring at him any time he touched me like he was going to take my leg away."

"He was correct about the ankle and food."

"Humph! Traitor."

Valdor’s thumb pressed along the arch of his foot. Amor’s complaint dissolved into a quiet, involuntary sound. The warrior looked up. Amor hid behind the water cup.

"Hngh... co-continue."

Valdor continued.

By the time the final vegetable remained, Amor had surrendered most of his resistance. He ate it slowly, purely out of principle, making certain Valdor understood that compliance did not indicate enthusiasm. Valdor accepted the performance without comment. Only when the plate was truly empty did he stop the massage.

Amor’s foot remained warm and relaxed upon his thigh. Valdor adjusted the bandage gently, checked that no swelling had worsened, then transferred the leg back onto the pillows with such care that Amor barely felt the movement. After smoothing the blanket over it, he reached for the dessert. Amor brightened. Valdor held it just beyond him for one final moment.

"I will bring you a present tomorrow."

Amor, already reaching forward, froze.

"A present?"

"Yes."

"What kind of present?"

"A surprise."

His eyes narrowed.

"It cannot be a surprise if I know I am getting it."

"Yes, it can."

"No, now it is merely delayed information..."

Valdor removed the lid from the dessert. The honey-berry sweet released a warm scent of fruit, butter, and faint spice. Amor’s attention flickered toward it despite himself. Valdor cut a spoonful from the soft center.

"You might as well tell me."

"No."

"I can be very persuasive."

"Yes."

"Then tell me already."

Valdor lifted the spoon to Amor’s lips. Amor stared at him. The tactic was shameless.

It also worked.

He opened his mouth almost automatically, and Valdor fed him the first bite of dessert. Warm berry, honey, and tender pastry melted across his tongue, immediately disrupting every argument he had prepared. His eyes closed for half a second despite himself.

Valdor placed the dessert bowl into his hands. Amor accepted it. For several breaths, the present became less urgent than the sweet.

Valdor watched with quiet satisfaction as Amor took another bite, then another, his earlier interrogation temporarily defeated by sugar and fruit. The young noble’s expression softened in pleasure, cheeks still faintly flushed from the massage and the lingering embarrassment of having been fed. One hand held the bowl while the other balanced the spoon with delicate seriousness. Valdor rested back slightly, satisfied.

The first courtship dinner had worked. Amor had eaten everything, smiled more than once, and no longer looked as brittle with exhaustion as he had after the hearing. The dessert would restore his mood further, and tomorrow the ankle support would prove more useful than any explanation. Valdor could wait to reveal it. Amor opened one eye.

"Ah! Wait a minute... You distracted me!"

"Yes."

"That is manipulative!"

"You were trying to know your present before it is time."

"I am injured, so you have to spoil me and tell me what it is."

"You ate dessert."

"I am still injured! Humph! Fine, keep your secrets. I won’t ask anymore!"

Valdor’s expression softened.

"Tomorrow."

Amor huffed, but another spoonful of honeyed berry entered his mouth before the complaint could fully form.

Outside the bedroom, the manor settled into evening, full of lamp glow, distant dinner bells, and the muffled voices of fathers still arguing somewhere down the corridor. Inside, the first day of courtship drew itself around them in warm food, careful hands, and the promise of a present Amor was already determined to uncover. Valdor remained at the bedside, saying little, watching much. Amor ate the dessert slowly after that. Not because he wanted to delay the surprise. Only because, for once, sweetness did not feel scarce.

Amor finished the last spoonful of dessert with the quiet satisfaction of a man who had survived vegetables and emerged victorious. The honeyed berry sweetness lingered pleasantly upon his tongue, warm enough to soften the last edges of the day’s exhaustion. He leaned back into the pillows with a faint sigh, one hand resting over his middle while the other still held the empty dessert bowl as though someone might accuse him of not appreciating it properly. His injured ankle felt warmer after Valdor’s careful attention, the dull ache loosened into something manageable beneath the blankets. Valdor noticed the change immediately.

"You are tired."

"I am full."

"You are tired."

"I suppose that too. Yes."

The warrior rose from the bedside and took the empty bowl from his hand, setting it onto the tray with the rest of the dishes. His movements were quiet and economical, but Amor could tell that every glance returned to him—his face, his ankle, his hands, the heaviness in his eyes. Valdor did not fuss like Lanslet, but his attention settled just as thoroughly.

"I will send a maid to help you wash and prepare for sleep."

Valdor said.

Sleep.

The word made the warmth inside Amor dim slightly. He kept his expression light.

"That sounds very responsible of you."

Valdor looked toward him.

"Do you need anything before I go?"

Amor’s fingers curled faintly in the blanket.

’Yes. Stay.’

’Sit beside the bed until morning.’

’Let me hear your heart until there is no room left for nightmares.’

The words pressed against his throat, but he could not force them into the room. Asking to touch Valdor’s heart once had already felt unbearably intimate, and admitting that the sound had become a shield against dreams he could not yet explain would reveal more than he was ready to offer. Valdor had promised to listen when Amor told him, but Amor still feared what shape the truth would take once spoken aloud.

So he smiled. It was practiced enough to pass in most courts.

"Nothing..."

Amor said.

"Good night, Valdor."

The warrior remained a moment longer, as though something in the answer failed to satisfy him. Then he nodded.

"Good night."

Valdor carried the tray to the door. Amor watched him go. The room felt colder before the door fully closed.

It was absurd. The fire still burned low in the hearth, the lamps remained lit, and the blankets tucked around him were warm. Yet Valdor’s absence altered the air at once, removing some solid pressure Amor had not realized he depended upon until it disappeared.

The door clicked shut. Amor stared at it.

He could call him back. He could claim he needed water, another pillow, the ankle checked again, or some other transparent excuse. Valdor would return without complaint. Worse, he would likely know the excuse was false and still sit beside him if asked.

Amor opened his mouth. Then closed it.

"No."

He whispered to himself. He had survived worse nights than this. He knew Valdor’s heartbeat now. He could remember it:

Slow, deep, steady, beating beneath his palm with a strength that made danger feel distant. Perhaps if he held the memory tightly enough, the nightmares would not find him.

The door opened. Amor’s heart leapt before dignity could stop it.

"Val—"

Elsie stepped in. Amor immediately swallowed the rest of the name and turned his face toward the window as though he had been studying the evening sky with profound interest. Elsie paused on the threshold, one hand upon the door, her experienced eyes taking in his posture, his flushed ears, and the suspiciously disappointed silence following her entrance. She said nothing at first. That was worse.

"My lord..."

She said sweetly.

"Shall I prepare your bath?"

"Ye-yes!"

Amor replied, perhaps too quickly. Elsie’s mouth curved.

She entered with the calm competence of someone who had been managing Amor’s rooms since before he knew how to form complete sentences. First, she crossed to the wardrobe and selected a fresh nightgown, pale cream silk trimmed in soft lavender thread, light enough for sleep but warm enough for the evening air. Then she rang for hot water and moved toward the bathing chamber adjoining his room. Amor watched her with suspicion.

"You’re smiling."

"I am always pleased to serve you, my lord."

"You are rarely this pleased about serving me, Elsie."

"Perhaps I am delighted that my master ate his dinner properly."

"I was coerced into finishing my vegetables."

"And rewarded with dessert by a handsome suitor."

Amor sank slightly into the pillows.

"I knew it would begin."

Elsie returned from the bathing room with towels over one arm.

"Did you enjoy your dinner date?"

"It was not a date!"

"My lord?"

"It was dinner."

"In your bed."

Amor lifted his fan from the blanket.

"You are walking a dangerous path."

Elsie did not appear frightened.

"With Lord Valdor seated beside you, feeding you dessert, and leaving with an expression that made Mary nearly walk into the corridor wall."

Amor’s fan twitched. He wanted to deny the entire accusation, but honesty betrayed him.

"It... it was nice..."

He admitted quietly. Elsie’s teasing softened.

"I only wish I had not been injured and trapped in bed for all of it."

"Oh, do not worry about that..."

Elsie said, far too lightly.

"There will be plenty of time for dinners alone in chairs, and plenty of time for alone time in bed separately..."

Amor looked at her. Elsie continued arranging towels as if she had said nothing improper.

"This way merely cuts out the middle parts. Most times, dates after a dinner don’t lead to the bed because of how heavy the food is, but you won’t have that problem while you recover."

The meaning arrived. Amor’s face flamed.

"Elsie!!"

He struck her arm with the folded fan, half scandalized and half laughing despite himself. Elsie accepted the blow with the serenity of a woman who had survived far worse from an embarrassed young master. Her shoulders shook with contained laughter as she lifted the blankets off the bed.

"I spoke only of efficiency. It won’t be long until you have your bridal training."

"You absolutely did not just say that!"

"I would never say anything indecent."

"You have been saying indecent things since I woke!"

"And yet you keep me employed."

"Only because replacing you would require explaining why you were dismissed. I couldn’t bear explaining your mouth to my father. I’m afraid he will punish your whole extended family for letting me hear such things!"

Elsie smiled. That smile carried years within it.

She had arrived at House Moons when Lady Avamor was still heavy with child, the entire household bright with anticipation and worry. Elsie had been young then, barely more than a girl herself, recently brought into service and desperate to prove she could be useful in a house far grander than any place she had known. Amor had not yet been born, but already the servants spoke of him in hushed excitement as the future heir.

Then he arrived.

Tiny, pale, and impossibly delicate, with lavender fuzz curling against his head and a cry that made even the sternest steward soften. Elsie remembered peeking into the nursery and feeling something in her chest crack open with affection she had not expected. He had been beautiful from the beginning, but more than that, he had looked helpless in a way that made everyone near him instinctively careful.

When Lady Avamor died, that instinct became a vow. Elsie had still been young, far too young to replace a mother, yet she remembered standing near the nursery door while Lanslet wept in silence over the cradle. Baby Amor had slept unaware, one tiny fist curled near his cheek, motherless before he could understand loss. Elsie had looked at him and thought, with the fierce certainty only youth could give, that someone must love him loudly enough that he never mistook absence for abandonment.

So she did.

She grew into a maid, then a senior attendant, then the one servant in House Moons permitted to speak with a freedom that would have earned dismissal anywhere else. She argued with Amor about weather, food, sleep, fashion, impractical shoes, and the emotional hazards of handsome idiots. She teased him mercilessly because she knew he was kind enough to let her and proud enough to need someone who did not fear his dramatics.

Lanslet allowed it. Of course he did. The master of the house was kind too, indulgent in his grief and grateful to anyone who loved his son without calculation. Between his softness and Amor’s own generous heart, Elsie had been allowed to become something that was not quite servant, not quite sister, and not quite family in the eyes of law, but real enough to matter where it counted. That was why the last six months had nearly broken her.

She had watched Amor’s affection for Duke Alphonsins begin as admiration, then sharpen into longing, then twist into something feverish and desperate. The young master she had helped raise—flamboyant, vain, soft-hearted, dramatic, and easily wounded beneath all his jeweled pride—had become someone who waited for letters that did not arrive and dressed for meetings that left him hollow. Each time he returned from the duke paler than before, Elsie had wanted to tear down House Solaris with her own hands.

The relationship had almost destroyed him. Not by making Amor cruel at once, but by making him smaller. He apologized for wanting too much, then demanded too much because apologies had not earned him tenderness. He sent gifts, arranged meetings, wept in private, and laughed too brightly in public until the household learned to fear the sound. Elsie had watched a kind young man become frantic beneath a love that fed on his worst fears.

Now, looking at him blushing over dinner in bed with a Blackstone warrior who asked before touching him, Elsie felt something inside her unclench.

Her young master was back. Not exactly as before. Better, perhaps.

There was a steadiness in him now that had not existed before the breakup, a sharpness beneath the softness, and a new habit of choosing his own dignity even while frightened. If that enormous northern man with the solemn eyes helped keep him there, Elsie would bless the courtship in her heart even while teasing both of them into misery.

"Come..."

She said gently.

"Let us get you washed before you fall asleep sitting up."

"I am not that tired."

"You nearly called me Lord Valdor."

Amor’s lips parted. Elsie’s eyes sparkled.

"I-I-I-I did not!!"

"You said ’Val—’ with great hope."

"Th-that could have been anything!"

"Valerian tea?"

"Yes!"

"Valuable documents?"

"Po-possibly...."

"Valiant northern suitor?"

Amor swatted at her again. Elsie laughed and moved to help him.

Because his ankle could not bear weight properly, the process required patience. She slid one arm behind his back and helped him shift carefully toward the edge of the bed, keeping the injured foot elevated until the last moment. A footman waited outside only in case lifting became necessary, but Amor insisted he could manage the short transfer with Elsie’s support and the nearby wheeled chair.

He did. Barely.

The moment his injured foot lowered too far, pain flashed across his face. Elsie caught it immediately and clicked her tongue.

"Tsk, tsk. Pride is a terrible walking aid."

"It was two steps to the chair."

"It was almost one dramatic collapse."

"I did not collapse!"

"Because I am that excellent. See, you can’t get rid of me now."

She settled him into the chair and rolled him toward the bathing room.

Steam had already softened the adjoining chamber, carrying the scent of lavender, warm milk soap, and a faint medicinal herb Doctor Haverin had recommended for bruising. The copper tub gleamed beneath the lamplight, filled only partway so Amor would not need to struggle with depth while injured. A stool had been placed beside it for his elevated leg, padded heavily enough that even Lanslet could not object.

Elsie helped him remove the outer robe first. The silk slipped from his shoulders in a pale whisper. Then came the inner layers, loosened with care around the bandaged wrist and lifted away without disturbing the ankle. Amor endured the process with the practiced dignity of a noble accustomed to attendants, though his earlier blush had not fully faded. Elsie kept her expression professional until she saw him glance toward the door again.

"He will return tomorrow."

She said. Amor looked back too quickly.

"Who?"

"Valerian tea."

He closed his eyes.

"You are insufferable."

"Yes, my lord."

Elsie turned to fold the discarded robe, smiling privately. When she helped him stand just long enough to enter the bath, she could not help the familiar, almost sisterly admiration that rose in her. Amor had grown into the kind of beauty that made strangers stare and servants become violently protective. He was male, certainly, but nature had shaped him with a softness many women envied and many men misunderstood.

His body was lithe rather than fragile, narrow through the shoulders with a delicate waist that curved smoothly into rounded hips. His skin held the pale, luminous quality of moonlit porcelain, so fine that even faint blushes and bruises appeared vivid against it. The long fall of lavender hair made the image more unreal, sliding down his back in dampening strands as though a painter had chosen an impossible color simply because ordinary beauty was not enough.

Elsie had dressed him through childhood fevers, adolescent growth, court seasons, tantrums over ribbons, and heartbreak. Her admiration contained no impropriety, only exasperated wonder that someone could be born so unfairly lovely and still complain when a collar sat one finger too high. Even the soft pink flush of his nipples on his chest and the delicate color of his body seemed coordinated by some divine tailor with an excessive fondness for pastels. She sighed. Amor narrowed his eyes from the tub.

"What?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing."

"You made a sound."

"I was only thinking."

"That is never safe."

Elsie wrung a cloth over his shoulder.

"I was thinking that if Lord Valdor has functional eyes, he is doomed."

Water splashed.

"Elsie!"

She dodged most of it.

"Ahaha! Careful..."

She said, laughing.

"You are injured and delicate, little prince of pastels."

"You are outrageous!"

"I am correct. May the Gods have mercy on any man who lays his eyes on you. You may blind him with your beauty and drive them mad. I truly pity Lord Valdor; he could end up having a short life with a stunning beauty like you by his side–ah! But he may die with no regrets should he lay his gaze on your bountiful chest."

Amor sank lower into the bath until the water reached his collarbone, hiding nearly everything except his flushed face and the lavender hair floating around him.

"There is no dignity in this house!"

"There is plenty. You simply use yours all in public."

"That is because my servants steal the rest! Humph!"

Elsie began washing his hair with gentle hands, working the soap through the long strands while keeping water away from his face. Amor relaxed despite himself, eyes lowering as her familiar touch moved across his scalp. The bath’s warmth eased the lingering stiffness left from the day.

For a while, neither spoke. Elsie’s teasing settled into quiet care. She rinsed his hair, washed the dust and stress of court from his skin, and carefully cleaned around the bandaged wrist without disturbing the dressing. When she reached his injured ankle, she did not touch the swollen area directly. Instead, she cleaned around it with the delicacy of someone handling glass. Amor watched the steam rise.

"Elsie."

"Yes, my lord?"

"Do you think I was foolish?"

Her hands paused.

"With the duke?"

She asked.

Amor looked down at the water.

"With... everything."

Elsie set the cloth aside. She considered lying beautifully, the way servants often did when noble wounds needed flattering. Instead, because she loved him, she chose honesty.

"Yes."

Amor gave a faint laugh, though it held little humor.

"Wow. You didn’t even hesitate."

"I can’t lie to you, young master. You were utterly foolish..."

Elsie said.

"You were also lonely, hopeful, young in a way that had nothing to do with age, and desperate for someone unworthy to become worthy because admitting otherwise would hurt too much..."

Amor’s throat tightened. Elsie touched the wet lavender hair near his shoulder.

"That does not make you wicked."

"The court heard the letters."

"Good..."

He looked at her.

"Let the court hear that you gave too much to a man who took too much..."

She said.

"Let them whisper. Better that than watching you keep apologizing for wanting to be loved!"

Amor closed his eyes. A small silence followed. Then Elsie resumed washing his hair.

"Besides..."

She added more lightly.

"Your taste has improved significantly since the duke."

Amor opened one eye.

"You mean the barbarian."

"I mean the enormous, excessively polite barbarian who asks permission before touching your ankle and feeds you dessert after vegetables."

"Humph! He is not polite about vegetables."

"No one decent is."

Amor laughed softly. The sound eased something in the room.

...

After the bath, Elsie helped him dry and dress in the fresh nightgown. The garment slid over his body in cool cream silk, falling loose enough not to press against any bruise or bandage. She braided his lightly damp lavender hair into a loose sleeping plait, tied it with a soft ribbon, and returned him to the chair before helping him back into bed with great ceremony and several warnings about pride.

By the time he was settled again, the room had been prepared for night. The fire burned low. The lamps were dimmed. A cup of water stood nearby, along with Doctor Haverin’s medicine and the fan within easy reach. Elsie lifted the blankets over him and tucked them carefully around his waist, leaving the injured ankle elevated upon its pillows.

Amor looked toward the door once more. Elsie saw. This time, she did not tease immediately.

"Would you like me to send for him?"

Amor’s fingers tightened over the blanket. For one dangerous moment, the truth rose again.

’Yes. Send for him.’

’Tell him I am ridiculous and frightened and cannot sleep without a heartbeat that is not mine.’

But he was not ready. Not yet.

"N-no..."

Amor said.

"He has done enough today. Let him rest."

Elsie studied him. Then she nodded.

"Very well."

She moved toward the door, then paused with one hand upon the handle.

"My lord..."

Amor looked at her.

"If the night becomes difficult, calling for comfort is not the same as being weak."

The words struck too close. Amor looked away. Elsie did not push. She opened the door and slipped into the corridor, leaving it ajar just long enough for the warmer hallway light to touch the room. Then it closed softly behind her.

Amor remained still. The room settled around him. For several breaths, everything seemed peaceful. Then the quiet grew larger.

Without Elsie’s movement, without Valdor’s steady presence, without the absurd safety of fathers arguing nearby, the shadows in the corners stretched in ways the firelight could not fully tame. Amor drew the blankets higher and pressed one hand to his own chest, searching for the rhythm he had tried to memorize.

His heartbeat was faster. Less steady and somehow not enough. He closed his eyes anyway.

’Valdor’s heartbeat...’

He reminded himself.

’Is deep, warm and constant. Nothing like mine.’

He tried to hear it beneath memory. Tried to place his cheek once more against the broad chest, feel the carriage sway, smell smoke and herbs and mountain wind. For a moment, the memory held. The darkness softened.

Amor breathed in. Then out.

"Just tonight."

He whispered. He did not know whether he meant he would manage alone tonight or allow himself to call next time. The answer did not come. Only the quiet did.