Chapter 57: Warm Dream

Valdor was deeply asleep one moment and violently awake the next. There was no slow return to awareness, no confused blink toward the ceiling, and no sluggish adjustment of a body dragged unwillingly from rest. One instant his breathing was deep and even beside Amor’s bed, and the next his eyes snapped open as a presence crossed too quickly into the invisible boundary his instincts had built around him. His head lifted so sharply that, to anyone watching, it might have appeared he had been pretending to sleep the entire time.

The fourth guard had apparently leaned closer to inspect whether Valdor was truly unconscious. He stumbled backward at once. One hand flew toward his weapon as he dropped into a defensive stance, startled enough that the movement lacked the near-perfect silence the secret guards had maintained throughout the night. Valdor barely looked at him. His first concern was Amor.

Valdor turned immediately toward the bed, searching the sleeping man’s face for any sign that the disturbance had awakened him. Amor remained turned slightly toward the edge of the mattress, lavender hair scattered across the pillow, his expression peaceful enough that the shadows beneath his closed eyes looked less severe than they had at midnight. His fingers still rested loosely around Valdor’s hand. Only after confirming Amor remained asleep did Valdor look toward the window. The sky had begun changing.

Beyond the glass, the two moons hung low over the horizon, one pale silver and the other faintly blue, both sinking toward the dark line of distant hills. Dawn had not yet appeared, but Blackstone hunters learned to read the night by celestial movement long before they learned to measure time by kingdom clocks. Valdor knew immediately that the hour they had agreed upon was ending. His time in the room was up. Behind him, the fourth guard recovered from his embarrassment badly.

"What in the—"

Thunk—

A dull knock interrupted him. The first guard had crossed the distance without warning and struck the fourth neatly on top of the head with the hilt of his sheathed blade. The blow was not dangerous, but it was humiliating enough to make the younger man straighten with a strangled hiss.

"Training..."

The first guard said. The fourth stared at him.

"More of it."

"I was checking whether he—"

"You failed..."

The fourth’s mouth tightened. Valdor almost approved. The first guard turned his concealed face toward him, and whatever brief alliance had existed between them during the night disappeared almost immediately.

"Leave. Now."

Valdor disliked him. The feeling remained simple and mutual. He respected the man’s competence, understood the duty behind his suspicion, and even acknowledged that allowing Valdor to remain had given Amor several hours of peaceful sleep. None of that changed the instinctive irritation produced every time this stranger spoke as though he possessed greater claim to Amor’s safety merely because House Moons paid him to stand in darkness.

Valdor looked down at their joined hands. Leaving felt worse. He began unlacing their fingers carefully. Amor made a faint sound. Valdor stopped. The young noble’s hand shifted blindly against the sheets, fingers reaching after the warmth disappearing from them. His brows pulled together, and a soft whimper escaped his lips. Valdor’s body reacted before thought. He almost sat back down. His fingers nearly closed around Amor’s again. Then the first guard’s quiet voice came from behind him.

"Go."

Valdor’s jaw tightened. He hated that the man was right. If he remained now, he would be turning a temporary solution into a decision Amor had never knowingly made. Tomorrow he could ask. Tomorrow Amor could choose exactly what staying meant. Right now, Valdor had to leave.

He pulled his hand fully away. Amor searched once more. Valdor stood quickly before the sight changed his mind. The moment his feet settled beneath him, he turned toward the door and crossed the room without looking back again. If he saw Amor reach a second time, he was no longer certain respect would be stronger than the instinct screaming at him to return. The door closed quietly behind him.

Valdor moved through the corridor fast enough to shorten the suffering without becoming loud enough to wake the household. His skin-cloth boots made almost no sound against the polished floor, while the cool predawn air creeping beneath the windows did nothing to ease the strange pressure sitting behind his ribs. By the time he reached the guest room, his thoughts had become louder than the manor ever could.

Vervath remained asleep. This time Valdor did not test him. He crossed to his mat, lowered himself onto it, and lay flat upon his back. Then he stared at the ceiling.

Minutes passed. Perhaps longer. He could not tell. His mind returned first to the hidden guards, then to the secret knowledge they carried, then to the fact that Lanslet knew Amor suffered but not why. Those details should have mattered enormously. Instead, everything returned to one thing. Amor’s hand.

Valdor lifted his own. He held it above his face in the dim room and studied it as though seeing it for the first time. It was the same hand he had carried through every hunt, fight, winter, and injury since childhood. Large, thick and built more for gripping weapons than anything delicate.

The palm was broad enough that Amor’s hand could disappear inside it, the skin roughened by years of rope, stone, blade handles, bowstrings, carving tools, and frozen wood. Heavy calluses ridged the base of each finger and crossed the upper palm in pale hardened patches, while old scars interrupted the darker skin in uneven lines—one along the thumb where a hunting knife had slipped when he was thirteen, another across the palm from catching on broken antlers, several smaller white marks left behind by tools, claws, and years of treating wounds as inconveniences rather than tragedies.

Valdor had never considered the hand attractive. Useful, certainly. Strong, reliable but if he was being honest, kind of ugly. That was the word he privately used.

His fingers were too thick, the knuckles too prominent, and the nails kept short because anything longer split during work. Veins rose visibly along the back whenever he flexed, visible even beneath old scratches and the darker lines of his tribal markings. Even the texture embarrassed him sometimes when he touched Amor, whose skin felt so soft by comparison that Valdor constantly worried his own roughness might scrape him.

Yet Amor had held this hand like salvation. Valdor slowly curled his fingers. He remembered the desperate strength beneath Amor’s sleeping grip. Not enough to hurt. Enough to say stay without language. The thought changed the hand in front of him.

Those ugly scars had not frightened Amor. The calluses had not mattered. The enormous fingers Amor once teased for being rough had somehow become the thing his sleeping body reached toward when nightmares swallowed him. Valdor felt something tighten inside his chest.

His hands had always been useful for things he understood. They killed, built, carried, cooked, carved, bandaged, protected and more. Last night, one of them had done something impossible. It had reached somewhere Valdor could not.

He had been helpless against Amor’s dreams, unable to enter them, track them, or kill whatever creature prowled through his nightmares. Yet his hand had somehow crossed the distance his body could not and given Amor enough peace of mind to rest. Valdor lowered it toward his face. His scarred mouth brushed lightly against his own palm. Then imagination betrayed him.

He pictured Amor’s hand between both of his. Small, pale and elegant. He imagined holding it carefully between his palms, bringing it toward his mouth, and pressing a slow kiss into the soft center where no callus interrupted the skin. Then another against the fingers, not stolen while Amor slept, but given while pink eyes watched him and permission had already been offered.

Heat moved through him. Valdor’s eyes opened wider.

’Stop. Don’t.’

Pleading to himself was not helpful. His imagination continued anyway. Amor beside him. Not merely holding hands across the edge of a bed. Sleeping close. Permission given deliberately this time. Perhaps Amor curled toward his chest the way he had during their nap, lavender hair spilling across Valdor’s shoulder while the night remained quiet around them. Perhaps Amor would reach for him before sleep instead of only after fear made choice unconscious.

Valdor’s ears burned. The warmth spread down his neck.

Then lower towards his waist.

He looked toward the ceiling again. Sleep was impossible. His body felt rested enough after the stolen hours beside Amor, but the sudden heat running through him had destroyed any remaining chance of calm. Valdor sat upright with a low breath.

’Cold water. That would help. Probably.’

He collected his washing cloth, soap, clean wraps, and a fresh set of furs from the traveling chest. Rather than use the manor’s bath and risk waking servants before dawn, he decided upon the river beyond the eastern garden, where the water would be cold enough to punish imagination back into obedience. Valdor stood. Vervath snored. The warrior looked toward him once. Then left with considerably more urgency than dignity required.

---

Amor woke choking. His body jerked upright against the pillows, one hand flying toward his throat while the other tangled in damp sheets. His breath came too fast, chest rising sharply beneath his nightclothes as darkness and morning fought for possession of the room around him. For several horrible seconds, he could still feel fingers wrapped around his neck.

Then the bed appeared. The canopy. The pale walls. The faint silver light before sunrise. Then all of House Moons had returned to him. Amor shut his eyes. His heart continued pounding. The nightmare had returned. But this one had been different.

It had begun normally. As normally as nightmares could be for him. First came hunger. Lovell wandered through another ruined building with his stomach cramping so violently he could barely stand straight. He found food eventually—sealed packets, canned meat, anything—and every time his fingers came close enough to touch it, another hand snatched it away.

His mother. His father. Sometimes both.

They told him they needed it more. They told him he was younger. Stronger. Capable of enduring hunger. They promised he could eat later. Later never came. Then smoke entered the dream. Thick. Black. Hot enough to burn the inside of his throat.

Lovell ran through shattered streets beneath a sky stained red, lungs tearing with every breath while infected creatures screamed behind him. Their noises were too human in places and not human enough in others, wet groans breaking into shrieks as bodies that should have been dead slammed against walls, overturned vehicles, and one another.

They caught him. They always caught him.

Hands clawed at his clothes. Teeth sank into skin. Fingers tore down his arms until flesh opened beneath them. The pain in dreams should not have felt real. It did.

Amor remembered screaming while something bit through his shoulder and another infected hand ripped across his ribs deeply enough that he imagined seeing bone. His parents watching him and he would call out that he was their son. He was Lovell, the child they raised, their child but it wouldn’t matter how many times he told them his name. It never changed anything.

Then the nightmare changed again. That part was newer. The ruined street disappeared. A palace hall took its place. Alphonsins stood before him. Not the Alphonsins Amor knew now, angry and confused and unable to accept rejection. The Alphonsins from the novel. Cold, beautiful and final.

The sword entered Amor’s chest. He felt everything. Metal piercing cloth, then skin and finally muscle. The terrible pressure before the blade finally broke through. Amor looked down and saw blood spreading across pale clothing. He tried to breathe.

Blood filled his mouth instead. Alphonsins withdrew the sword. Amor collapsed. Then the dream prepared to begin again. Hunger waited in the darkness. Smoke gathered somewhere beyond sight. The infected started calling. Amor knew the cycle. He hated that knowledge most.

Then something warm touched his hand. The dream stopped. Gradually everything vanished. No street or palace. No parents, monsters or even a fierce Alphonsins. Amor found himself standing inside nothing. A blank white space surrounded him, neither bright nor dark, without ground beneath his feet or sky above his head. For the first time in what felt like years, nothing wanted to hurt him.

Something warm and bright rested in his hand. Amor stared at it. He could not fully see what it was. Only see that it was bright and feel it. Steady, solid, and warm enough to chase the cold from his fingers. The sensation spread into his palm, then wrist, then slowly through the rest of him until the fear trembling beneath his skin began to fade.

Amor held tighter. The warmth stayed. He did not understand why. He did not care. For once, the dream contained no hunger. No blood or commanding figures. Only warmth. Then it began to recede.

Amor panicked. At the edges of the blank space, darkness returned. He heard the infected. Far away at first. Groaning, scratching and worse of all, waiting.

"No!!"

Amor clutched the warmth harder. It stopped leaving. Relief flooded through him. The darkness retreated. Amor breathed easy again. Time passed strangely. Then the warmth moved away again. The darkness returned immediately. Amor grabbed desperately.

"Stay!!"

He did not know whether the word left his mouth. The warmth stopped. Then tried again. Amor’s fear grew worse every time. He began anticipating the loss, watching nothing and waiting for the moment safety would decide he no longer deserved it.

"Please..."

His pride disappeared. Lovell’s pride had never saved him. Amor’s pride could not fight this.

"Please stay...I’ll give you anything..."

The confession felt shameful even in sleep. The warmth returned fully. Amor nearly cried from relief.

"I’ll be good..."

They were old words. Dangerous words. Words he hated. But terror made him bargain.

"Just stay."

The warmth remained. Eventually, Amor stopped being afraid it would disappear immediately. Then something strange happened. He became happy. Not merely relieved or merely free of pain. Happy, content, almost elated. The warmth felt like a tiny god placed inside his hand solely to keep nightmares away. Amor began playing with it.

He stroked it. Turned it over. Pressed it between both hands. The warmth grew larger and closer. It surrounded him until he could lean into it. Amor did. He nestled against whatever it had become, feeling protected in a way the dream could not explain. There was something strangely familiar about the rhythm he felt from the warm light in his palm, a steady pulse he might have recognized if dreaming minds understood anything clearly. He petted the warmth again. It became hotter. Amor smiled.

Then, gradually, it shrank. The surrounding safety pulled away. The warm presence became something smaller against him. Then something only resting inside his hand.

"No—"

Amor held on. It slipped.

"Please!!"

The warmth faded. Amor tries to reach his hands out in an attempt to grab it. Darkness surged back. Before Amor could beg again, an infected hand shot from beneath him. Fingers wrapped around his throat. More hands followed. They caught his arms. His legs. His clothes. His poorly dyed green hair. Amor screamed as the blank world shattered beneath him.

Then he woke.

Now, sitting in his bed with dawn still hiding beneath the horizon, Amor pressed one hand against his throat and tried to slow his breathing. Sweat dampened his hairline. His nightclothes stuck lightly between his shoulder blades. Yet compared with recent mornings, he felt almost... rested.

That realization confused him more than the nightmare. The worst parts had happened. Hunger. death, infected creatures, even Alphonsins’s sword. But the cycle had broken for hours. Something had interrupted it.

’It was...warm.’

Amor looked at his hand. He turned it palm-up. Nothing. He rubbed his fingers together. The warmth from the dream was gone. He could almost remember its shape, though. Large, rough and perfectly steady. His brows drew together.

"What was that?"

No answer came. The shadows around the room remained perfectly still. Three guards watched. The fourth watched too, though from a position substantially farther from the bed after being struck earlier. All knew. None spoke. Their master’s standing command was absolute:

House Moons’s concealed guard network remained invisible to Amor unless revealing themselves became necessary to preserve his life. Nightmares, even terrible ones, did not meet that threshold.

So they watched their young lord search for an answer none were permitted to give. Amor lowered his hand. Whatever the warmth had been, he wanted it again. That admission bothered him. Depending upon something he could not name felt dangerous.

Still, the difference in his body was undeniable. He had slept. Really slept. For hours. He was certain the dark circles beneath his eyes might even be lighter. Amor threw aside the blanket. His ankle protested faintly when he shifted.

’Right. Still injured.’

He looked toward the wheeled chair beside the bed. The maids would arrive soon. Amor preferred being washed and composed before they could inspect how badly he had slept, especially after Mary had become increasingly bold about applying concealer beneath his eyes without even pretending it was merely cosmetic experimentation.

He moved carefully. One hand gripped the carved bedframe. The other reached toward the chair. The secret guards became alert. Amor transferred his weight awkwardly, keeping the injured foot lifted as Doctor Haverin demanded. The maneuver lacked elegance, but he had practiced enough over the last several mornings to manage without placing weight upon the ankle. He lowered himself into the chair.

’Safe! I’m never forgetting the brakes again.’

The hidden guards relaxed. Amor wheeled himself toward the washstand. He began to fill the tub with warm water. He dipped a cloth into it first and pressed it against his face. The warmth cleared the final fragments of nightmare. He looked into the mirror.

Soft pink eyes stared back. Lavender hair fell messily around his shoulders. The shadows beneath his eyes were still there but not as bad. Amor touched one. He remembered the warmth again. The way darkness vanished when he held it. The way it returned whenever the warmth tried to leave. He frowned.

"Perhaps I should ask Haverin about sleeping medicine."

The first guard nearly sighed.

’Medicine could not recreate that brute’s hand, my lord.’

Amor continued washing. None of them spoke. He cleaned the sweat from his body, changed his clothes, and began smoothing his hair before Elsie inevitably arrived to complain that he had attempted half his morning routine alone again. All the while, his mind remained fixed upon the strange comfort that had turned the worst nightmare of the week into the best sleep he had experienced in days.

He wanted it back. He simply had no idea that, at that exact moment, the source of that warmth was standing waist-deep in a freezing river across the estate, desperately attempting to stop imagining Amor asking him to share a bed. And failing.

---

The day began with Valdor training beneath Amor’s window again. By now, the arrangement had become almost embarrassingly routine. Amor allowed Elsie and the younger maids to disguise what remained of the shadows beneath his eyes, ate enough breakfast to satisfy his father, and then positioned himself near the window with a book he had no genuine intention of reading while Valdor crossed into the courtyard below. He told himself that observing Blackstone exercise remained culturally informative, though the amount of attention he gave to Valdor’s bare chest continued to undermine the scholarly defense. Valdor trained harder that morning.

Perhaps it only appeared that way because Amor had begun recognizing the differences between his movements, but there seemed to be more force beneath each controlled strike and more purpose in the way he transitioned between forms. He stretched first, moved through several slow weapon patterns, then shifted into strength exercises with a weighted practice pole, sunlight gradually warming the broad planes of his shoulders and catching on the faint sheen of sweat building across his marked skin.

Amor watched. He had become much better at pretending not to. The open book rested across his lap, one finger occasionally turning a page whenever Elsie passed near enough to judge him, although Amor could not have repeated a single sentence from the text if threatened. His attention followed the tension in Valdor’s back when the warrior raised the weighted pole overhead, the flex of his thick thighs when he dropped into a low stance, and the narrow line of his waist between the formidable breadth of shoulders and hips.

’There are cultural insights somewhere in this. Probably.’

Amor had stopped searching for them. What caught his attention more seriously, however, was not the familiar beauty of Valdor’s body but the way his awareness kept drifting beyond the training itself. Every few movements, Valdor’s gaze shifted. Not toward Amor’s window. Toward the hedges. The balconies. The upper walkways overlooking the courtyard.

His attention moved so subtly that most people would never have recognized the pattern, particularly because he never interrupted his forms or turned his head sharply enough to suggest alarm. Yet Amor had spent far too much time watching Valdor already, and he knew the difference between the warrior merely observing his surroundings and searching them for something specific.

Amor lowered his book slightly. Valdor completed another strike. His eyes moved toward the covered garden passage. Then briefly toward the roofline.

’Interesting.’

He looked like a guard dog who had smelled something unfamiliar around the house and had not yet decided whether it deserved barking at. The thought made Amor’s mouth twitch.

’That is unfair. Valdor is not a dog.’

He was a powerful adult warrior, future chieftain, envoy, hunter, and ridiculously competent man whose physical presence alone could silence most rooms. Comparing him to an overgrown hound seemed insulting. Then Valdor paused, looked toward a shadowed archway with narrowed obsidian eyes, and tilted his head slightly. Amor nearly melted.

’Guard dog!’

There was no helping it. A very large, exceptionally dangerous guard dog. One that apparently spent mornings checking every corner of Amor’s home for threats before returning to training. Amor raised the book again before Valdor could glance upward and catch him smiling. He did not want to be asked about it later.

Valdor finished training, cooled down properly, and disappeared toward the river rather than using the guest bath. Amor knew this only because a servant mentioned seeing him returning from the eastern grounds with damp hair and fresh furs, which immediately made Amor imagine cold river water sliding across an unclothed Valdor and forced him to think about grammar for several minutes as punishment.

Grammar did not help. Nothing helped.

By the time Valdor arrived for their lesson, he had washed, retied his hair, and changed into clean dark furs secured with the moonstone clasp Amor had given him. The repaired lavender ribbon remained safely braided near the front, protected within the dark strands, and the sight of it still produced a quiet satisfaction Amor refused to examine too closely.

Valdor entered. Then he scanned the room. Briefly and casually. Too casually. Amor noticed. His gaze touched the balcony doors, crossed the heavy curtains, settled for less than a second upon the decorative screen near the far wall, then returned to Amor as though nothing had happened. Amor’s brows rose faintly.

Valdor looked entirely normal afterward. Anyone else would have missed it. Amor did not. He watched Valdor a lot. Far more than was probably healthy. Something about that realization made him feel strangely smug. Whatever Valdor was searching for, Amor decided, he would eventually explain if it mattered. For now, the suspicious scanning only made the enormous warrior appear more endearing, like an overly alert animal silently patrolling a beloved person’s home while pretending no one had noticed.

"Good morning."

Amor said. Valdor’s attention settled fully upon him.

"Mm. Good morning. How are you today?"

The common pronunciation was excellent. Amor smiled immediately. Valdor’s ears warmed. That pleased Amor too.

"I am well. Thank you."

Doctor Haverin arrived not long afterward to inspect the ankle and wrist. The ankle remained swollen enough to forbid unnecessary walking, but the wrist had improved considerably. Haverin rotated Amor’s hand gently, tested the joint, pressed around the fading bruises, and finally announced that light handwork would be permitted provided Amor stopped the moment he felt pain.

"No carving..."

The physician added. Amor frowned.

"Not yet, young master."

Valdor nodded before Amor could argue.

"Humph! You are not the patient."

Amor said.

"No."

"Then stop looking pleased."

"I am pleased."

"Because?"

"You can braid more now."

That changed everything. Amor immediately turned toward the leather cords Valdor had brought with him again. Doctor Haverin sighed.

"I said light handwork."

"It will be light."

Valdor sounded so serious that the physician looked almost reassured. Then he remembered who he was speaking to.

"If his wrist hurts, you stop."

"Yes."

"If he insists he is fine when he is not—"

"He does that."

Amor looked offended. Haverin nodded.

"Then ignore him."

"You are both conspiring against me!"

The physician packed his satchel.

"Recovery often feels like a conspiracy to impatient people."

He left before Amor could retaliate. Valdor moved the adjustable table closer to the bed. Several strips of softened leather rested across it in different widths, some dyed dark brown, others natural tan, one narrow piece tinted a muted violet Valdor had apparently acquired from somewhere in the estate workshop. Amor noticed the violet one immediately.

"You planned that."

Valdor looked at it.

"You like purple."

"That is not an answer."

"Yes..."

Amor pretended his heart had not reacted. Valdor sat beside the bed.

"Basic braid first."

"I already did one yesterday."

"With three strips."

"Yes."

"This has five."

Amor studied the cords. Five appeared unnecessarily ambitious.

"I thought we were beginning."

"We are."

"What does advanced look like?"

"Seven."

Amor stared. Valdor’s mouth moved slightly.

"You are teasing me!"

"A little."

The admission delighted him far more than it should have. Valdor arranged the five strips across the table, anchoring one end beneath a small wooden weight. His large hands moved smoothly through the first sequence, separating the strands with thick fingers that somehow remained precise despite looking better suited to breaking branches than manipulating narrow leather. Amor watched carefully. This time, genuinely. Mostly.

"Outside strand..."

Valdor said.

"Over two..."

Amor copied him.

"Then under..."

He followed.

"Hold tension."

Amor tightened the strands too much. The pattern bunched. Valdor reached toward his hand. Then stopped.

"May I?"

Amor blinked.

"Yes."

Valdor gently touched his index finger and thumb, easing the tension until the leather relaxed.

"Not so tight."

Amor nodded. They continued. A few moments later, Amor crossed the wrong strand. Valdor leaned closer.

"May I?"

"Yes."

One enormous calloused finger nudged Amor’s middle finger aside while another guided the leather between his thumb and forefinger. The contact remained careful, almost absurdly gentle considering the difference in their hands. Amor tried not to notice how warm Valdor’s fingers were. He failed. Another mistake happened to the braid. Valdor paused.

"May I?"

"Yes."

He moved Amor’s ring finger. Another sequence.

"May I?"

"Yes."

This time he steadied Amor’s little finger against the cord. The fifth correction came several minutes later.

"May I?"

Amor’s mouth twitched.

"Yes."

Valdor adjusted his thumb. By the sixth, Amor was ready to lose patience. The warrior stopped with his hand hovering beside Amor’s.

"May I?"

Amor stared at him. Valdor waited.

"You do not have to ask permission for every individual finger."

The warrior’s expression became thoughtful. Amor recognized the look. Valdor was not merely accepting the statement. He was defining it.

"Which fingers?"

Amor stared harder. Valdor remained completely serious.

"All of them!"

Silence. Valdor looked down at Amor’s hands. Then back up.

"All?"

"Yes."

"Both hands?"

Amor opened his mouth. Then closed it to contain his chuckle.

"Yes, both hands."

"Only during lessons?"

Amor nearly laughed from exasperation.

"Yes, during handwork lessons you may reposition any of my fingers without stopping the entire world to ask first."

Valdor nodded.

"Understood."

The seriousness with which he accepted the boundary made Amor’s irritation disappear. It was not a joke to him.

Valdor had heard the permission exactly as it was given, narrowed its context, confirmed its limits, and stored it accordingly. He did not treat Amor’s earlier consent to handholding as permission to manipulate his wrist, nor yesterday’s approval to touch his hair as indefinite access to his body. He remembered categories, specifics and boundaries. That realization settled somewhere soft.

"Ahem—Continue."

Amor said. Valdor did. Several minutes later, Amor misaligned the braid again. This time Valdor simply reached over. His broad hand enclosed Amor’s smaller one from beneath, steadying the wrist without squeezing while two calloused fingers adjusted the angle of his index and middle fingers. He did not ask. He did not need to. Amor had said he could.

Something about that was unexpectedly intimate. Not the lack of asking. The fact that Amor knew exactly why Valdor had stopped asking. The warrior’s palm remained beneath his hand for several seconds while Amor crossed the next strand.

"Like this?"

"Yes."

Valdor’s thumb shifted slightly against the side of Amor’s hand. The movement sent an entirely unreasonable warmth along Amor’s arm. He cleared his throat. Valdor withdrew once the braid was correct. Amor immediately missed the contact.

That was inconvenient. They worked through another section. Amor made fewer mistakes now. He should have been pleased. Instead, part of him began wondering how to create more reasons for Valdor to touch his hands.

Perhaps the braid could become complicated again.

Perhaps he could claim his fingers were tired.

Perhaps Valdor needed to demonstrate another knot directly against his palm.

Amor stared at the leather.

’This is ridiculous.’

He was deliberately searching for excuses to hold hands with someone who would probably give him his hand immediately if asked. That thought led somewhere worse. Amor pictured Valdor standing beside him while he held out one palm. Amor would say.

"Hand."

And Valdor would place his massive hand obediently into his. Like a trained hound. Amor’s mind immediately added imaginary floppy puppy ears. Large ones. Dark to match the color of his black hair. Perhaps slightly drooping when Valdor worried. His soulful obsidian eyes made the image devastating. Amor nearly dropped the braid. Valdor looked toward him.

"Are you feeling any pain?"

"No."

"Is your wrist alright?"

"It’s fine."

"Then what is it?"

Amor’s face warmed.

"Nothing!"

Valdor watched him. Amor concentrated furiously upon the braid.

’This is wrong...’

He should not compare a future Blackstone chieftain to a dog. Especially not a puppy. Especially not a puppy he wanted to keep.

’That phrasing is worse! Much worse!! Dammit, Amor! Get a grip! Stop it!’

He banished the thought. It returned immediately. Valdor with dog ears. Valdor silently following him through House Moons. Valdor sitting beside his chair and offering one enormous paw—Hand! His hand. Not paw. Amor closed his eyes.

"I may need a hunting hound."

Valdor paused. The statement had appeared from nowhere.

"For hunting?"

"No..."

Valdor waited. Amor looked toward him.

"As a pet."

The warrior considered.

"House Moons has hounds."

"I know."

"You want one?"

"Perhaps."

Valdor looked toward the braid in Amor’s hands. Then toward him.

"You do not hunt."

"That is why I said pet."

Valdor nodded. Blackstone treated working animals differently from kingdom nobles, but the concept itself was not strange. Many young children in Blackstone often kept pets for a few years before focusing more on hunting while others who kept their pets trained them to help in their hunts.

"Choose one that is calm."

"Why?"

"Your ankle is hurt."

"My ankle will heal."

"Then choose one that will not pull you so it will not happen again."

Amor smiled faintly.

’Of course Valdor’s first thought would be practical.’

"What kind of hound would you like me to get then?"

"Large."

Amor almost laughed.

"Naturally. What else?"

"A good nose."

"Well, that’s obvious. Come on, what else?"

"Patient."

His smile softened.

"I think I like patient ones too."

Valdor looked toward him. Amor looked back. For one dangerous second, he nearly said I know one already. He stopped himself.

’The comparison would likely offend him. Probably. Maybe.’

Valdor did occasionally resemble a huge, silent hunting hound who appeared frightening until someone discovered he wanted praise and affection more than he understood. Amor’s mouth twitched. Valdor noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You are thinking."

"I do that often."

"About me."

Amor froze. Valdor had become far too observant.

"Why would you assume that?"

"You look at me."

Amor’s cheeks warmed. Valdor’s ears followed. Neither acknowledged the mutual embarrassment. They returned to braiding. Touch gradually became part of the lesson.

Valdor steadied Amor’s hand when the leather slipped. Amor passed cords into his palm and let his fingers linger for a fraction too long. Valdor turned Amor’s wrist gently to inspect the tension in the braid, staying well within the permission given.

At some point, Amor stopped waiting for mistakes. He simply rested one hand near Valdor’s whenever he needed the next strip. Their fingers brushed. Then brushed again. By afternoon, Amor had developed an alarming talent for arranging circumstances in which hand contact became technically necessary.

"Hold this..."

Valdor did.

"No, closer."

He moved closer.

"Wait, Amor. The leather is twisting."

Valdor reached beneath Amor’s hand. Their palms touched. Amor became deeply interested in knot construction. Valdor, meanwhile, had begun noticing that Amor was making requests he could complete independently. He did not expose him. He liked holding Amor’s hand too. That realization was becoming another quiet discovery.

Amor’s fingers were slender, the joints delicate without weakness, nails maintained with the meticulous care expected of a noble heir. The skin across his palm remained much softer than Valdor’s, though a faint roughness had begun forming near the fingers from practicing leather work.

Valdor found that pleasing. It was evidence. Not of hardship but of learning. His thumb occasionally brushed that developing spot while steadying Amor’s grip. Every time it did, Amor’s breathing changed slightly. Valdor noticed that too. He did not abuse the knowledge. He stored it.

The secret guards watched from their usual places. Valdor knew now. That changed the room completely for him. Every time Amor leaned over the leather, Valdor’s attention flicked unconsciously toward the known hiding places. He could sense the slight shift of weight behind the screen and recognize the unnatural stillness near the balcony curtains.

Amor noticed his scanning again. He still said nothing. The image of a guard dog returned. This time, Amor imagined Valdor glaring at invisible threats with ridiculous fluffy ears flattened against his head. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Valdor glanced toward him.

"What is it?"

"Nothing!"

"You keep saying that."

"Humph! Because you keep asking."

Valdor considered.

"Nothing can mean something. If you do not want to say, I will not ask again."

Amor laughed.

"You are learning common too well."

"Yes."

Pride bloomed immediately. Amor forgot the puppy thought for several minutes. By late afternoon, they had completed the five-strand braid. It was not perfect. One section remained slightly uneven, another tightened more than the rest, and the violet strip wandered off-center before returning. Yet when Valdor lifted the finished length and inspected it, he nodded with unmistakable approval.

"Good."

Amor narrowed his eyes.

"Actually good?"

"Yes."

"Not encouraging-the-injured-man good?"

Valdor shook his head. Amor smiled.

"What do Blackstone do with these anyway?"

"Many things."

"That is vague. Give me some examples."

"Bracelets. Harness ties. Tool wraps. Hair."

Amor looked toward the lavender ribbon in Valdor’s braid.

"Could this go in anyone’s hair?"

"...Yes."

He considered the finished cord. Then Valdor. The urge to give him another token surfaced immediately. Amor suppressed it.

’N-no way. It’s too soon.’

One ribbon had already produced enough emotional catastrophe for several days. Instead, he wound the braid around his own fingers.

"Perhaps I will keep this."

Valdor nodded.

"You made it."

Something about that pleased him more than if Valdor had simply gifted another object. He had made something. Not perfectly but it was still his. The afternoon softened around them. Elsie arrived with tea and lunch. Valdor prepared Amor’s without asking. Milk first then a small amount of honey. Then set aside with enough time left to cool before placing it within reach. Amor watched.

"You know how I take it now."

"Yes."

"Exactly. Down to the wait time."

"Yes."

He looked into his cup. This should not have been more intimate than being carried. It was. Amor sipped.

’Perfect.’

He hated how happy that made him. Valdor drank his own tea without milk. They ate their meals and after, returned to common vocabulary while Amor flexed his recovering wrist between exercises. At one point Valdor stumbled over a formal verb, corrected himself before Amor could help, then looked toward him for confirmation. Amor smiled.

"Perfect."

Valdor’s posture changed subtly. Approval still did that. Amor liked that too much. As evening approached, Valdor gathered the leather strips and tools, placing them aside on the floor to make room for more notes. Amor watched his hands.

Those huge, scarred, patient hands. The hands that now belonged to the exact category he had granted permission to touch his own. A dangerous idea returned. Perhaps he really could train Valdor to give him his hand whenever he asked.

’Not train...Teach?’

’No. That sounded equally suspicious...’

’I would simply... establish a habit.’

A mutually enjoyable habit. Amor lifted one hand. Valdor looked at it. Then at him.

"What is it?"

Amor’s courage disappeared. He pretended to inspect his fingers.

"Nothing!"

Valdor studied him for several seconds. Then, without being asked, he placed his hand palm-up beside Amor’s on the table. Not touching but available. Amor stared. Valdor looked toward the books as if nothing unusual had happened.

The massive hand rested there quietly, callused palm open. Amor’s heart did something humiliating. Perhaps the puppy comparison was not entirely his fault. He slid his fingers into Valdor’s palm. The warrior closed them gently around his. Neither spoke. No lesson required it, no braid had slipped and no injury needed checking. They simply held hands for several minutes while reviewing vocabulary.

Amor decided he definitely needed a hunting hound. Preferably one much smaller than Valdor. Otherwise he was beginning to suspect he already had the emotional equivalent of one sitting beside him.

...

As evening approached, Valdor finally stood and gathered the leather strips, finished knotwork, and scattered practice materials from the table. Their hands separated slowly. Amor watched his leave. Then immediately missed it.

’This is becoming a serious problem.’

Amor watched his hands as he worked, those enormous scarred fingers moving with the same surprising gentleness they had used all day when adjusting or touching Amor’s own. The hands now belonged to the exact category Amor had explicitly granted permission to touch him during their lessons, and somewhere between the sixth may I and Valdor silently offering his palm without being asked, Amor had discovered that he enjoyed the contact far more than was reasonable as both men had begun inventing reasons to hold on.

Amor looked down at his completed braid. Then toward Valdor. Tomorrow, he decided, he might ask his father about the hounds. Entirely unrelated. Probably. Amor frowned at his completed braid as though the leather were responsible for his thoughts. Across from him, Valdor finished stacking the books and looked toward the door.

"I will return."

Amor’s attention sharpened immediately.

"You are leaving?"

"Mm. To bring you your dinner."

The disappointment vanished so quickly Amor hoped Valdor had not seen it.

"Oh. Then hurry."

Valdor’s mouth twitched.

"You are hungry?"

"I have been using my mind for several hours."

"Yes."

"And injured people require additional nourishment."

"You said that about pastries."

"Humph! It remains medically sound."

Valdor nodded as though accepting an established fact.

"I will bring the food."

Amor watched him leave. Only after the door closed did he notice his hand still resting where Valdor’s had been. He moved it. Then moved it back.

’Haah, I’m being ridiculous.’

Amor signaled for Elsie to help him into the adjacent sitting room for dinner.

...

The warrior returned not long afterward carrying enough food for a proper dinner for two. Unfortunately, Vervath came with him. The high chieftain entered first with all the confidence of someone invited despite having received no invitation whatsoever, while Valdor followed carrying a large covered tray balanced easily upon one hand. Vervath had somehow acquired a cup of something warm along the way and appeared entirely too comfortable for a guest who had already been threatened with unrestricted sparring privileges earlier. Amor looked behind them. No lavender-haired marquess followed. His brows rose.

"Where is Father?"

Vervath dropped into one of the chairs beside the low table.

"Hm? Oh, that stiff old man? He says he is busy."

Amor immediately became suspicious.

"Doing what?"

"I do not know. Some noble arrived and they started talking in his study..."

Valdor set the dinner tray down. Vervath waved vaguely toward the rest of the estate.

"A deal that needed wrapping up before tomorrow. Trade, land, silver, horses—something noble like I am guessing."

Amor narrowed his eyes.

"You were listening very carefully."

"I stopped listening when they brought documents and closed the door."

Valdor uncovered the meal. Steam rose from roasted poultry, seasoned vegetables, rice cooked with herbs, fresh rolls, sliced fruit, and a smaller covered plate Amor strongly suspected contained dessert. The smell immediately distracted him.

"For your benefit..."

Vervath continued,

"Lans said to begin eating without him."

Amor stared toward the door. He could practically imagine his father somewhere downstairs growing increasingly irritated with every additional document placed before him. Lanslet was undoubtedly smiling with terrifying politeness at whichever unfortunate noble had chosen this evening to conduct business, all while thinking about his injured son being left unsupervised near detestable vegetables, irresistible sweets and an alluring, handsome suitor. Amor could almost hear him.

"Do not let him begin with dessert."

But he was not here to say it now. His gaze slid toward the smaller covered dish. Valdor noticed.

"No."

Amor looked offended.

"I have not done anything!"

"You looked."

"I am allowed to look! Humph!"

Valdor moved the dessert farther away. Vervath grinned into his cup. Amor folded his arms. The irritation was partly performance. He knew perfectly well that Lanslet and Valdor were correct about his increasingly enthusiastic relationship with sugar. The problem was that sweets still felt miraculous.

Even after living as Amor long enough to understand that House Moons could purchase cakes every day without noticing the expense, some small part of Lovell remained incapable of taking them for granted. Before the outbreak, baked goods had already been treats rather than necessities with his measly income from his part-time job; afterward, they became fantasies.

Forget sugar. During the worst months, people were fortunate to find salt. Pepper might as well have been gold.

Anything requiring flour, butter, eggs, sugar, yeast, clean water, controlled heat, and enough safety to spend hours preparing it belonged to another civilization. The wealthy who had prepared private shelters sometimes possessed preserved luxuries, and experienced survivalists could occasionally reproduce something crude if they found the ingredients, but for ordinary people running between abandoned buildings and infected streets, cake ceased being food and became memory.

Lovell had once considered himself something of a survivalist. Not professionally. Not even seriously at first. He had begun learning as a child because his parents had an unfortunate tendency to forget him.

Sometimes they left him at parks. Stores. Libraries. School events. Once, a camp site. They would promise to return shortly, disappear into whatever argument, relationship, or distraction mattered more at the moment, and occasionally fail to remember him until the following day. The first few times, Lovell cried and waited. Eventually, he stopped relying upon waiting. He read.

Anything he could find about surviving outdoors, identifying edible plants, finding water, making shelter, starting fires, setting simple traps, reading terrain, and keeping warm. He learned because some frightened part of him believed that one day his parents might simply never return, and if that happened, he wanted to know he could remain alive wherever they had left him. For years, he had been proud of that independence.

Then the virus came.

The world became too chaotic for careful learning. Libraries burned because desperate people needed fuel. Books became kindling, barricade material, bandages, or simply objects left rotting in buildings no one dared enter. Knowledge that had once been a hobby suddenly became more valuable than money. Lovell’s parents discovered exactly how useful their forgotten child had become for more than to use in a court room. They probably would not have survived the first month without him.

Lovell stored water in bathtubs, buckets, bottles, animal skins, and every sealed container he could find before municipal systems failed completely. He collected rainwater, filtered it through layered cloth, charcoal, sand, and whatever materials remained available, then spent hours boiling it because contaminated water could kill just as effectively as infected teeth. He identified edible plants. Then checked them for signs of contamination before anyone touched them.

He memorized abandoned buildings likely to have been empty when the outbreak began, prioritizing offices closed overnight, storage facilities, isolated workshops, and seasonal properties less likely to contain infected occupants. He learned which structures offered multiple exits, which stairwells could be barricaded, and which roofs provided visibility without trapping them.

Lovell fished, set traps, made tools, started fires without matches, repaired crude shelters, tracked weather, rationed food and so much more. He did basically everything. At first, he did it because survival required it. Afterward, he did it because some foolish part of him thought usefulness might finally transform into love.

If he kept them alive, perhaps his mother would look at him differently.

If he found enough food, perhaps his father would stop treating him like an inconvenience.

If he carried enough, fixed enough, planned enough, endured enough, perhaps the two people who created him would finally decide he was worth protecting too.

Instead, usefulness became another chain. They depended upon him. Then exploited him. The skills Lovell had once learned so he would never be helpless became the very reason his parents refused to let him stop working, resting, searching, carrying, and risking himself. Every new survival skill became another task they could demand from him. In the end, he died anyway. A tool until the final moment.

Amor’s gaze drifted toward the covered dessert. Perhaps that was why sweetness mattered so much now. Cake asked nothing from him. Honey did not require him to prove usefulness first. A pastry could simply be enjoyed because he wanted it.

As Amor Moons, he possessed enough wealth that no one would steal sugar from his hands, tell him the family needed it more, or calculate whether he had contributed enough labor to deserve another bite. The sweetness pushed memories of ash, hunger, boiled rainwater, and his parents’ endless demands farther away. For a few minutes, the world tasted gentle.

Amor looked toward the vegetable dish. Unfortunately, gentleness did not protect teeth. He sighed. Valdor had begun arranging his plate. A proper portion of poultry, rice, two kinds of vegetables and one roll.

Amor watched the greens land beside everything else. His mouth turned downward. Valdor looked at him. Amor looked at the vegetables. Then at Valdor.

"I—"

"No."

"Wha—I didn’t even ask a question!"

"You were going to..."

Amor’s pout deepened. Vervath began eating his own dinner while clearly enjoying the show. Valdor sat beside the chaise.

"Eat..."

Amor picked up his fork. He speared one vegetable with such resentment that anyone watching might assume it had personally insulted House Moons. Valdor’s eyes warmed.

"It will not fight back."

"You do not know that."

"It is cooked."

"Humph! That means nothing."

"You survived braiding."

"Leather is more trustworthy."

Valdor looked toward the vegetable.

"It is smaller than you."

Amor glared at him.

"Size does not determine danger."

Vervath nodded solemnly.

"That is very true, Valdor."

Valdor looked toward his father. Vervath immediately returned to his meal. Amor ate the vegetable. Valdor quietly placed another on his plate. His eyes widened.

"You replaced it!"

"You finished one."

"That does not mean I wanted reinforcement!"

Valdor’s mouth curved. Amor stared at the tiny smile.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"

"Yes."

The honesty ruined his argument. Amor huffed and ate another. Valdor coaxed rather than commanded. One bite earned another piece of roll. Another vegetable came with the promise that Amor could have dessert immediately after finishing the greens. At some point, teasing entered the strategy.

"Blackstone children eat these."

"I am not a Blackstone child."

"Five-year-old Kesra ate more."

Amor’s eyes narrowed.

"Do not compare me to a five-year-old!"

"She was four."

Vervath choked. Amor looked scandalized. Valdor remained completely serious for several breaths before the slightest curve at the edge of his mouth exposed him.

"You lied!"

"A little."

"Humph! You are becoming corrupt!"

"You teach me."

Amor placed a hand against his chest.

"My influence has been impeccable, it seems..."

Valdor looked toward the dessert. Amor followed his gaze. Then sighed. He ate the rest of the vegetables. Every last one. Valdor inspected the plate. Amor pointed his fork at him.

"If you say you are proud of me, I will stab you with this."

Valdor considered.

"You did well."

Amor stared.

"That is worse!"

Vervath laughed. Valdor finally uncovered dessert. Two honey-glazed pastries sat beneath the lid. Amor’s entire expression changed to that of an alerted cat who had finally been told he was being given a treat. Valdor noticed immediately. So did Vervath. The transformation was so complete that even Amor could not pretend indifference.

Valdor placed one pastry upon his plate. Amor accepted it with both hands. For a moment, the smell alone carried him—not toward hunger, smoke, or infected streets, but away from them. Butter, honey, actual real flour and spices. Proof that he lived somewhere food could be made for pleasure.

He took a bite. Sweetness spread across his tongue. The bitterness inside him retreated. Only temporarily but that was enough. Valdor watched the tension ease from Amor’s shoulders. He did not understand the reason, not yet. He only knew sweets made Amor happy.

So he stored that knowledge beside everything else. How Amor took his tea. Which fingers required guidance during braiding. Which smiles lied. Which ones did not. This one did not. Valdor looked at the remaining pastry. Then quietly moved it closer. Amor noticed.

Their fingers brushed as he reached for it. Neither pulled away immediately. Across the table, Vervath looked between them and wisely decided that, for once, he would keep his mouth occupied with food and beer. Today had begun with fingers becoming educationally necessary. It ended with Valdor learning another small truth about Amor without understanding the history beneath it:

Sweetness softened him. And Amor, surrounded by food he no longer had to earn, discovered that vegetables were considerably less offensive when a patient man promised honey afterward. By the time Amor finished the second honey-glazed pastry, the servants had already begun clearing dinner around them.

Silver covers returned to the emptied platters, soup bowls vanished onto stacked trays, and the last pieces of bread were consumed by Vervath while Amor remained reclined comfortably upon the chaise with his injured ankle supported by Valdor’s carved gift. The remains of their afternoon lessons still occupied the smaller table near the window—common-language primers mixed with Blackstone notes, the uneven five-strand braid Amor had made looped proudly beside an inkpot, and one abandoned strip of violet leather that neither man had bothered putting away. Dinner had somehow merged into their studies so naturally that the room no longer looked arranged for either purpose alone. Vervath finished the last of his drink and pushed his chair back.

"I should see whether that noble has finally released Lanslet from whatever paperwork has trapped him."

Amor glanced toward the door with immediate interest.

"If Father has not appeared by now, the negotiation must be dreadful."

"Pah! Or the other man talks too much."

"You say that as though you recognize excessive talking as a flaw."

Vervath placed one enormous hand over his chest.

"I speak only when wisdom requires it..."

Valdor looked toward him. Amor did the same. Vervath endured both expressions for approximately two seconds.

"Which is often..."

He amended. The chieftain stood, rolled one shoulder, and looked toward the covered wine decanter a servant was carrying away. Vervath quickly snatched it away and held it up high as if it were awarded to him as a victory.

"Perhaps I will share a drink with Lanslet when he is finished. He may need one after missing dinner with his son..."

Amor’s expression softened despite himself. Vervath grinned.

"And I may need one after surviving another day of my own son glaring at me."

Valdor remained unmoved.

"You earned it."

"Hmph! So everyone keeps telling me..."

He headed toward the door, then paused beside Amor long enough to offer a surprisingly restrained nod rather than another joke about marriage, grandchildren, or relocation to the north.

"Sleep well tonight."

Amor blinked at the sincerity.

"You too. Good night."

Vervath left. Valdor watched the door close behind him. For several moments, he wondered whether his father’s sudden determination to find Lanslet had anything to do with their developing courtship. Vervath was not subtle when he wanted something, yet he had been making a noticeable effort to treat Amor’s father with more consideration since Valdor formally asked permission to court his son. Perhaps he understood that Lanslet’s anxiety came less from hostility toward Blackstone and more from the fear that every step bringing Amor closer to Valdor might someday take him farther from home.

Or perhaps Vervath simply knew Lanslet would be miserable after missing a meal with Amor. Both seemed possible. His father could be crude, nosy, catastrophically incapable of leaving ribbons alone, and occasionally deserving of being thrown through windows, but he was not unkind. He had loved Sarka enough to carry her absence as part of himself, and perhaps that made him recognize another man’s attachment to family more clearly than his teasing suggested. Valdor decided not to examine the matter further. There was something considerably more dangerous demanding his attention.

’Tonight, I must ask.’

His gaze shifted toward Amor. The young noble remained unaware of the direction Valdor’s thoughts had taken, distracted by instructing a servant not to remove the leather braid because he intended to keep it. His pink eyes looked brighter than they had the previous morning, and although faint shadows remained beneath them, they were undeniably lighter. He had laughed more throughout the day as well—real laughter, not the polished smiles Valdor had begun learning to distrust. The difference had started after last night.

Valdor knew that. Amor did not. The knowledge made his chest tighten. He remembered the way Amor’s sleeping fingers had clung to his hand whenever he tried to leave. He remembered the nightmare easing when Valdor returned his touch, the cold skin slowly warming, and the invisible guards arguing from darkness because even they had grown exhausted watching the same painful cycle repeat. Most of all, he remembered withdrawing shortly before dawn and seeing Amor immediately begin searching for him again.

’Tonight could be different. If Amor allows it.’

That condition mattered more than everything else. Unfortunately, asking suddenly seemed much more difficult than imagining. The final servant collected the dinner tray. Elsie remained long enough to inspect Amor’s ankle support, ensure fresh water had been brought, and remind him that Mary and Junia would return later to help prepare him for bed. She glanced once toward Valdor, and something in her expression suggested she had noticed the warrior becoming unusually silent.

"Will you require anything else, my lord?"

Amor shook his head.

"No. I’m fine for now. Thank you. Have a good night, El."

Elsie looked toward Valdor. He gave no indication. She left. The door closed. Silence settled. Not true privacy. Valdor knew that now. One guard occupied the concealed position near the balcony. Another waited beyond the carved screen. A third was somewhere near the outer wall, and the irritating fourth—whose training apparently remained insufficient—was likely hiding farther back after the humiliation of that morning.

Valdor could sense them. Knowing they were there should have made what he intended to ask easier. It did not. Because Amor did not know. From his perspective, Valdor would be asking whether he might spend an entire night alone in the bedroom of the man he had only formally begun courting only days ago. The thought sent heat into Valdor’s ears. He looked toward the books.

’Perhaps tomorrow. No. Amor needs to sleep tonight.’

Valdor looked toward the windows. He could ask after the maids returned.

’No. That would embarrass Amor in front of them.’

He looked toward the door. Perhaps he could simply repeat the arrangement from yesterday and check once. The memory of Amor whimpering every time their hands separated crushed that solution immediately. Valdor exhaled through his nose.

’This should not be difficult.’

He had asked Amor for courtship. He had stood before a king. He had challenged monsters larger than horses. He had thrown his father out of a third-floor window. Words remained worse. Especially these words. Amor finally noticed the silence. He looked up.

Valdor stood beside the low table with both hands resting at his sides, posture far too rigid for someone supposedly waiting for the dishes to be cleared. His expression remained stoic, yet Amor had become good enough at reading him to notice the slight tension around his mouth and the way his gaze repeatedly found Amor before moving away. Amor tilted his head.

"You appear troubled."

Valdor looked at him.

"No."

"Yes, you do."

"No."

"Ah, yes. That was very convincing..."

Valdor’s brows drew together. Amor smiled. Valdor liked that smile. That made the question necessary. He knelt beside the chaise. Amor watched him carefully. The warrior was close enough that the scent of clean fur, river water, and something earthy reached him. Valdor looked at Amor, then toward the bed visible through the adjoining doors, then back again. His ears began turning red. Amor noticed immediately. Curiosity sharpened.

"What is it?"

Valdor opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

’This is absurd. I can speak. Probably.’

"Tonight."

Amor waited. Valdor looked toward the bed again. Amor followed the glance. Then back toward him.

"Yes?"

Valdor’s ears darkened further.

"May I stay?"

Silence.

Amor blinked. Valdor forced himself not to retreat.

"Here..."

He added. Amor’s lips parted slightly. Valdor looked toward the bedroom.

"All night."

’There. The request existed.’

He immediately wished he could fight something instead. Amor stared at him. The meaning was impossible to misunderstand now. Not another brief check or merely sitting beside him until sleep arrived and leaving afterward.

Valdor was asking to remain.

All night.

In his bedroom.

Heat rushed into Amor’s face so quickly that his first instinct was to reach for his fan. It was still on the table. Tragic. His fingers curled instead around the edge of the chaise cushion.

"You..."

Amor began, then discovered language had become strangely unreliable despite spending most of the day studying it.

"You wish to sleep here?"

Valdor nodded. The motion was painfully serious. Amor’s imagination immediately became unhelpful. Valdor in his bed. Valdor beside him. Valdor’s enormous body stretched beneath blankets. Bare chest warm in the darkness. Heartbeat beneath Amor’s cheek. Amor abruptly looked toward the window. This action was not because of his increasingly naughty thoughts. Probably. He cleared his throat.

"What prompted this?"

Valdor had prepared for that question. He had not prepared an answer that avoided revealing what happened the previous night.

"You sleep better with someone near..."

Amor became still. Valdor continued carefully.

"The nap...You slept deeply..."

That was safe. They both knew about the nap. Amor looked down at his hands. He had had no nightmares during the entire nap they took. The memory remained almost embarrassingly precious. Valdor added.

"Your eyes are better today."

Amor’s fingers touched the skin beneath one eye.

"You noticed?"

"Yes."

"Even with the powder?"

"Yes."

The answer was immediate. Something vulnerable moved through Amor. He had thought Elsie and the maids concealed the exhaustion well. Perhaps everyone else believed it. Valdor apparently studied his face too closely to be fooled. That realization should have embarrassed him. Instead, it felt strangely comforting.

"You think sleeping near you helped?"

"Yes."

Valdor knew it had. Amor only suspected. His thoughts returned to last night. The nightmare, the warmth and the mysterious presence he had clung to inside the dream. He still had no explanation for it. Yet he had awakened more rested than he had in days. Amor’s gaze slowly returned to Valdor.

The warrior stood quietly before him, waiting. Not assuming, moving toward the bed or transforming silence into consent. Only waiting patiently. Amor’s instinctive refusal rose anyway. It was too intimate, too vulnerable, too...dangerous.

His old life had taught him what happened when people learned what he needed. Need became leverage. Fear became weakness. Comfort could be withheld until obedience returned. Lovell had learned that lesson so thoroughly that even now, surrounded by wealth and safety and servants who genuinely loved him, the word need still felt like handing someone a weapon.

But this was Valdor. The man who had been granted permission to touch his fingers after excessive confirmation that it was okay and obeyed the exact limits rather than stretching them. The man who had wanted Amor’s freedom even when it frightened him. The man whose hidden carving promised return without demanding that Amor wait. Amor looked toward the bed. Then back.

"Where would you sleep?"

Valdor answered immediately.

"Where you choose."

That did something inconvenient to Amor’s heart.

"The chair?"

"Yes."

"The floor?"

"Yes."

"The edge of the bed?"

Valdor’s ears turned nearly crimson. A pause.

"Yes."

Amor nearly smiled. He was not the only one struggling. That helped.

"And if I change my mind?"

"I leave."

"Immediately?"

"Yes."

"If I wake and want you farther away?"

"I move."

"If I wake and want you..."

Amor stopped. Valdor waited. Amor’s face heated as he shyly spoke.

"Closer?"

He finished. The warrior became very still.

"...I move."

The answer came lower. Amor looked away. This was becoming substantially more dangerous than language lessons.

"Ah-hem. What if you fall asleep?"

"I probably will."

The honesty surprised a laugh out of him.

"At least you admit it."

"I need sleep."

"So do I."

"Yes."

They looked at one another. That was the point. Amor exhaled slowly. Then made the smallest deliberate choice he could.

"You may stay tonight..."

Valdor’s shoulders loosened. Relief warmed his entire expression. Amor lifted one finger immediately.

"One night."

Valdor nodded.

"We decide tomorrow whether it happens again."

"Yes."

"And no assuming this becomes permanent."

"No."

"And you do not get to announce to our fathers that you are putting me to bed and then spending the night."

Valdor considered.

"That seems important."

"It is extremely important! I do not want another discussion regarding future children! Don’t you?"

"Yes."

Amor narrowed his eyes.

"You sound amused."

"A little."

"Humph! You are becoming unbearable."

"You permit it."

Amor huffed. Then another thought struck him.

"Where do you actually want to sleep?"

Valdor’s gaze moved toward the bedroom. His honesty created its own problem.

"Near you..."

Amor’s heartbeat stumbled. Valdor continued before misunderstanding could grow.

"Enough to hear you."

That softened the heat into something deeper. Amor looked down.

"The-the bed is...rather large..."

Valdor went very still. Amor immediately regretted speaking. Not because he wanted to withdraw the invitation. Because now it existed in the room between them.

"You could..."

He cleared his throat.

"Sleep above the blankets. On the other side."

"Yes."

"So there is no confusion."

"Yes."

"And no improper behavior."

Valdor’s expression became solemn.

"...None."

Amor almost laughed.

"You almost sound disappointed."

"No."

The answer came too fast. Amor stared. Valdor’s ears betrayed him. Amor’s face joined them. Neither spoke for several seconds. Somewhere behind the decorative screen, one secret guard silently pressed a fist against his mouth. Another shifted, probably to stop him from making a sound. Valdor sensed it. His eyes flicked toward the screen. Amor noticed.

"You did that again!"

Valdor looked back.

"Did what?"

"That!"

Amor gestured vaguely toward the room.

"You keep looking around as though something is hiding behind my furniture..."

Valdor became extremely still. The concealed guards became even stiller. Amor smiled.

"It is rather cute."

Valdor blinked.

"Cute?"

"Yes..."

The warrior looked mildly offended. Amor’s smile widened.

"You resemble a hunting hound who heard something beneath the floor."

Valdor stared at him. Amor realized he had accidentally allowed the puppy comparison into reality. His smile faltered.

"Whaa!! What I mean—I, um—I mean that respectfully!!"

Valdor’s brows lowered.

"You compared me to a dog."

"A very impressive dog!"

Silence. Amor tried desperately not to laugh.

"They are large..."

Valdor’s expression flattened further.

"Incredibly loyal..."

Worse.

"And-and very strong..."

Still nothing. Amor covered his mouth.

"I...I am making this worse, aren’t I?"

"Yes."

"I apologize."

Valdor considered.

"What breed would I be?"

Amor stared. Then burst into laughter. The warrior’s mouth curved.

"You did that deliberately!"

"Yes."

Amor pointed at him.

"You are learning far too much!"

Valdor looked pleased. The laughter slowly eased. The room felt lighter afterward. The request no longer hung between them like something dangerous. It had become an agreement. However temporary and specific it may be, it was still one chosen willingly. Valdor looked toward Amor once more.

"Tonight."

Amor nodded.

"Tonight."

Valdor lifted one fist and tapped it lightly against his chest. The same gesture he used when accepting something meaningful. Amor’s expression softened. For the first time in days, the thought of going to sleep did not immediately fill him with dread. He still did not know what warmth had interrupted his nightmare the previous night. He still did not know why his body had awakened feeling as though someone had spent hours holding him together. But tonight Valdor would be beside him.

Perhaps that would be enough.

Across from him, Valdor tried not to think too carefully about lying in the same bed as Amor for an entire night. He failed. Heat moved down his neck. A cold river suddenly seemed very necessary.

Today had begun with touch becoming educationally necessary. It ended with something far more personal and difficult. Permission to stay.