The sheets stuck to their bodies in tangled folds.
Ilyan lay on his back, chest rising in slow, steady pulls. His thighs trembled faintly. Sweat cooled in the hollows of his hips. Kael didn’t move for a long time. He stayed above him, half buried, one arm braced beside his head, the other cradling Ilyan’s cheek.
The crown prince—king in all but title—had his eyes closed, lips parted.
And he looked peaceful.
Not worn. Not ruined.
Just quiet.
Kael exhaled.
He pulled out gently, careful not to draw a sound from the man beneath him. Then rose from the bed, naked, scarred, steady. He soaked a cloth in warm water from the washbasin and returned without a word.
Ilyan opened his eyes.
“You don’t have to—”
Kael silenced him with a look.
He pressed the cloth to Ilyan’s thigh, dragging it slowly upward, wiping away the mess of sex with reverent care. The gentlest pressure. No rush.
“You don’t have to be strong now,” Kael said.
Ilyan blinked. “I’m not trying to be.”
Kael’s hand lingered.
“You never let anyone hold you.”
Ilyan reached up, brushed his fingers along Kael’s jaw. “Then hold me.”
Kael did.
He slid into bed beside him, wrapping one arm around Ilyan’s chest, their legs tangling instinctively. Ilyan pressed his face into Kael’s shoulder, breath syncing to the slower rhythm of trust.
Not heat.
Not lust.
Just presence.
“I thought you’d leave after,” Ilyan whispered.
Kael made a low sound in his throat. “Then you don’t know me yet.”
“I know you better than anyone.”
“Then you should know I don’t fuck people I plan to walk away from.”
Ilyan’s breath caught.
Not from fear.
From relief.
He curled tighter into Kael’s chest.
“I didn’t want to be king alone,” he said.
“You’re not,” Kael murmured.
His hand trailed up Ilyan’s back, palm wide, steady.
“I’m not just your blade. Not anymore.”
Ilyan didn’t answer.
Just held him.
And let himself be held.