He looks younger like this. Vulnerable. The sharp intelligence and careful control he usually wears like armor stripped away, leaving just a man pushed too far, trying too hard, refusing to admit defeat.
I set the tray down quietly, moving closer. Parchment covers every surface—theories about magical decay, experimental remedy formulas, desperate attempts to find what every other healer has missed. Some pages are neat, methodical. Others show frustrated scrawls, words crossed out, margins filled with increasingly illegible notes.
He's been at this for hours. Days. Weeks.
Trying to save someone who can't be saved.
"Valas." I touch his shoulder gently, feeling solid muscle beneath soft fabric. "Wake up."
He stirs, making a sound that's half-groan, half-protest. Doesn't lift his head.
"Come on." I squeeze his shoulder. "You can't sleep like this. Your neck will hate you tomorrow."
"S'fine." The words slur together, muffled against his arms. "Just... few more minutes."
"It's evening. You've been in here since morning." I keep my voice soft but firm. "Daryn sent me to make sure you haven't died at your desk."
That gets through. He lifts his head slowly, wincing immediately as stiff muscles protest the movement. His moon-violet eyes are hazy with sleep, confusion flickering across his face like he's not quite sure where he is.
Then he focuses on me and something warm slides through his expression.
"Keira." My name comes out rough, sleep-graveled. "What're you doing here?"
"Apparently preventing you from permanent spine damage." I gesture at his hunched position. "How long have you been asleep?"
"I wasn't sleeping. Just resting my eyes." He tries to sit up straighter, wincing again as his neck protests. "Fuck."
"Elegant." I can't quite hide my smile. "Very scholarly."
"My scholarly demeanor is taking a brief holiday." He rubs at his neck with one hand, grimacing. "Along with my ability to hold my head upright, apparently."
"Let me help." The offer escapes before I can think it through.
He stills, hand falling away from his neck. "Help how?"
"You're in pain. I can..." I trail off, suddenly aware of what I'm suggesting. Of the intimacy inherent in touching him, in putting my hands on his skin. "I could try to work out some of the tension. If you want."
His eyes search my face, looking for something. "You don't have to do that."
"I know." And I do know. Know I could walk away right now, leave the tea and go. That he'd let me without complaint or expectation. "But I want to. If you'll let me."
Silence stretches between us, weighted with awareness. With the acknowledgment of what this means—this crossing of another invisible line we've been dancing around for days.
"Yes." His voice drops lower. "Please."
I move behind him, nerves sparking alive under my skin. I've done this before—helped my mother with tense shoulders after long days, worked knots from other servants' necks. But this feels different. Charged.
"Tell me if I hurt you." I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, feeling warmth through his shirt.
"You won't." Certainty threads his words.
I press my thumbs into the muscles bracketing his spine, finding tension coiled tight as wire. He's wound so tightly I'm surprised he hasn't snapped. I work slowly, carefully, mapping the landscape of strain and stress.
He exhales shakily, head dropping forward as I dig into a particularly stubborn knot.
"That's..." He trails off.
"Too hard?" I ease up slightly.
