The infirmary tent smelled of bitter herbs, boiled linen, and the faint copper tang of blood that never quite washed away.
Caelan lay on a narrow cot shoved against the canvas wall, the rough wool blanket pulled to his waist. The new bandage Thorne had tied was tight, efficient, almost tender in its care. Every breath pulled at the stitches Grom had insisted on adding once they reached the keep. Pain flared bright and brief, then settled back into a dull, persistent ache.
He stared at the canvas ceiling, watching shadows play across it from the single lantern hanging near the entrance. Soldiers moved outside in low voices, the clink of armor and the crackle of cookfires filtering through. The attack had ended hours ago. The Nightshades were gone. The wyrmbeast's corpse lay cooling in the courtyard like a grim monument to the night's madness.
And still Thorne hadn't come back.
Caelan turned his head toward the tent flap. No one.
Eros materialized above him, floating lazily on his back, wings trailing faint golden motes like dying stars.
"You're brooding," the spirit observed with relish. "It's adorable. Very tragic hero."
Caelan didn't bother answering. He just kept staring at the canvas.
Eros rolled over, propping his chin on tiny hands. "You saved his life. He saved yours. You fought back-to-back like you've been doing it for years. And yet here you are, alone in a tent, wondering why he hasn't come to finish what the Nightshades started."
"I'm not wondering anything."
"Liar." Eros's voice softened. "You're wondering why he didn't kill you when he had the chance. Twice. Why he carried you like you were something worth saving. Why he looked at you in the courtyard like he'd just seen the sun for the first time in a decade."
Caelan closed his eyes. "Stop."
Eros didn't stop. "Because you felt it too. That moment when his arms closed around you. When his heartbeat thundered against your ear. When you realized, just for a second, that you weren't alone in the dark anymore."
The words landed like stones in deep water. Caelan felt them ripple through him, stirring things he'd buried long before he ever died in that stupid car crash.
He opened his eyes again. The lantern light wavered.
"I don't know how to do this," he said quietly. The admission tasted like rust on his tongue. "I don't know how to… want someone. Not really. Not without it turning into something ugly."
Eros drifted closer, landing lightly on Caelan's chest, right over his heart. The tiny weight was almost nothing, but the warmth was everything.
"You don't have to know," the spirit whispered. "You just have to let it happen. One terrifying, ridiculous heartbeat at a time."
Caelan swallowed. "And if he hates me when he finds out who I really am?"
"Then he'll hate you," Eros said simply. "And you'll survive it. Because you've survived worse."
Silence fell between them, soft and heavy.
Outside, boots crunched on gravel. The tent flap lifted.
Thorne stepped inside.
He looked exhausted. Soot streaked his face, blood—some his, most not—dried on his gauntlets. His crimson cloak hung crooked, torn in three places. But his eyes found Caelan immediately, and something in his expression eased. Just a fraction.
"You're awake," Thorne said. It wasn't a question.
Caelan managed a weak smirk. "Disappointed?"
Thorne didn't answer. He crossed the tent in three strides, pulled the single stool closer to the cot, and sat. His knees nearly brushed Caelan's arm.
For a long moment neither spoke.
Then Thorne reached out, slow enough that Caelan could have pulled away if he'd wanted to.
He didn't.
Thorne's fingers brushed the edge of the bandage, checking it without asking. His touch was careful, almost reverent.
"You shouldn't have jumped on that wyrmbeast," Thorne said, voice low and rough. "You could have died."
"So could you," Caelan replied. "If I hadn't."
Thorne's hand stilled. His gaze lifted. Blue eyes met green. Held.
"I've killed thieves before," Thorne said quietly. "I've killed men who looked me in the eye and lied. I've never hesitated."
Caelan's heart thudded hard enough to hurt. "And now?"
Thorne exhaled, slow and ragged. "Now I'm wondering why I can't stop thinking about the way you fought beside me. Like you belonged there."
The confession hung between them, fragile and enormous.
Caelan felt the warmth bloom again, deeper this time, spreading from his chest outward until it reached the tips of his fingers.
He lifted his hand—slow, deliberate—and brushed his knuckles against the back of Thorne's wrist. Just once. Just enough to feel the steady pulse beneath scarred skin.
Thorne didn't pull away.
Neither did Caelan.
Eros, still perched on Caelan's chest, let out the softest, most delighted sigh in the history of the multiverse.
Outside, the night wind moved through the camp, carrying the scent of smoke and pine. Somewhere in the distance, a soldier laughed. A horse nickered. Life went on.
Inside the tent, two men sat in silence, hands almost touching, hearts almost colliding.
And in the quiet space between them, the first real thread of something unbreakable began to weave itself tighter.
Caelan didn't know what came next.
He only knew he wanted to find out.
With him.
With Thorne.
With whatever madness came after.