For a little while longer we remain like that, talking quietly and stealing warmth from each other as the forest slowly brightens beyond the cave entrance.
Eventually the quiet warmth of the cave forces practicality back into the world. The air beyond the moss bed has cooled while we lay tangled together beneath the fading glow of abyssal light, and when I finally stretch my arms above my head the movement pulls a soft groan from muscles that remember far too clearly how little sleep actually happened during the night.
Threxian watches the motion with open interest. His gaze drifts slowly down the length of me, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
“You are doing that on purpose,” I accuse.
“It is called admiration,” he replies with perfect calm.
I laugh softly and reach for the scattered pieces of clothing lying near the moss. My dress has been folded surprisingly neatly beside the stone wall, which makes me pause for a moment before glancing toward him.
“You folded these.”
He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug.
“I noticed you were tired.”
The simple answer does something strange to my chest. I slip the dress over my head, smoothing the fabric down while the lingering warmth of the bond curls lazily beneath my ribs. The cloth still smells faintly of smoke and forest air, but it feels comforting in a way it did not yesterday.
Behind me Threxian rises as well. Watching a demon put his clothes back on should not feel distracting, yet my gaze lingers longer than it probably should as he pulls his shirt over broad shoulders and fastens the leather ties at his wrists with slow, unhurried movements.
“You realize,” he says without turning, “that humans are usually more discreet when they ogle something.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks.
“I wasn’t ogling anything.”
His mouth curves faintly as he glances back over his shoulder.
“Of course not.”
The calm certainty in his tone makes my embarrassment deepen rather than ease. I busy myself brushing stray moss from my sleeves before I can think of a clever reply.
“Princess,” he murmurs softly, the word carrying quiet amusement.
Before I can think of a reply, he moves toward the cave entrance and crouches near the small pile of branches he gathered the night before. A few moments later a faint sparkshows between his fingers, and a modest cooking fire begins to glow beneath a flat stone he has arranged near the mouth of the cave.
“You’re making breakfast,” I say in surprise.
“I am attempting to,” he corrects. “Demons are not known for culinary expertise.”
“You destroyed fortresses but breakfast intimidates you.”
“Fortresses rarely require careful heat control.”
The quiet humor in his voice softens something inside me. I move closer, watching as he places a small pan over the flames and adds a handful of berries he gathered earlier along with a piece of bread wrapped in cloth.
“You collected food already? And found a pan?”
“I woke before you. Quick walk to the village and around, and then slipped back in bed.”
The firelight dances across his face as he turns the bread carefully in the pan, and for a moment the cave feels less like a hiding place and more like something strangely domestic.
A home we built overnight out of moss, stone, and stubborn survival. He tears the warmed bread in half and offers one piece to me. When I take it our fingers brush. The bond answers with a quiet pulse of warmth.
“You’re spoiling me,” I murmur.
His yellow eyes lift toward mine.
