"I am so, so sorry... did I wake you up?"
Lioren was still hovering awkwardly in the doorway, looking like a man who had suddenly realized he had wandered into a situation he absolutely should not have wandered into, yet couldn’t quite bring himself to retreat. The silver mug of night-tea he’d hauled all the way up the back stairs was clutched tightly in his hands, steam wafting lazily toward the ceiling.
Xavion pulled the damp towel back from his hair, his single violet eye blinking once, twice, in the dim light of the corridor. "No, Grand Duke. You did not disturb me."
He paused, observing how Lioren remained planted right on the threshold, his eyes darting frantically between the carpet, the doorframe, and the far corner of the bedchamber as if calculating the precise social distance required between betrothed nobles at ten o’clock at night. It was ridiculous, really. The man had practically burst through the front gates earlier that day with all the subtle grace of a runaway cart, yet now he looked terrified of setting half a boot-sole across a bedroom rug.
"Is there something you need?" Xavion asked, his tone polite, if slightly bewildered. Stepping back into the room, he made a small, welcoming gesture with his hand. "Please, come in."
Lioren hesitated for barely a second, a tiny, almost invisible hitch in his breath, before stepping across the threshold. "Right. Thanks. I just... well, I wanted to drop this off, obviously, but mostly I just wanted to check on you."
He set the steaming mug down on the bedside table with a small clack, brushing a stray lock of dark, damp hair out of his eyes. He looked around the vast room, his brow furrowing with that peculiar, intense focus he seemed to reserve entirely for domestic logistics.
"I wanted to make certain everything was taken care of," Lioren admitted, his voice dropping into a softer, slightly self-conscious register. He scratched the back of his neck, looking genuinely troubled. "It’s been... a lot, hasn’t it? Such a sudden change. You’re far from home, and now you’re suddenly stuck in my house. I kept wondering if you were actually comfortable, or if you were just being polite while secretly hating the mattress."
Xavion couldn’t help the tiny, faint curve that touched the corner of his lips. It was an unfamiliar feeling, this sudden tug of quiet humor in his chest.
"There is no need to worry, Grand Duke," Xavion said smoothly, his tone low and reassuring. "Your servants have prepared everything wonderfully. The room is exceptionally comfortable, the fire is warm, and I am... truly grateful for all the care I have received tonight."
The relief that washed over Lioren’s face was so immediate and transparent it was almost comical. His shoulders visibly dropped three inches.
"Thank God," Lioren breathed, letting out a long, dramatic gust of air. He slumped slightly, resting one hand against the carved bedpost. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. Because, honestly? You only arrived in Werestia yesterday. And since then, it’s just been one chaotic mess after another, the political negotiations, the formal betrothal announcement, packing up your things, leaving the palace, and then boom, suddenly you’re living under House Roscaire’s roof."
He looked up at Xavion, his blue eyes bright and entirely earnest. "I just really didn’t want you to feel like you’d been tossed into an unfamiliar house like a sack of grain and expected to just figure it out on your own. If there’s anything, and I mean anything, you need, or if something isn’t to your liking, you just have to say the word. You don’t have to suffer in silence to save my face."
"The pace has indeed been remarkably fast," Xavion acknowledged quietly. He pulled the plush velvet robe a little tighter around his shoulders, staring at the small wisps of steam rising from the mug on the table. "Only yesterday, we barely knew each other. And tonight, we are standing in the same room as betrothed partners."
Lioren let out a bright, sudden bark of laughter, shaking his head. "I know, right? It’s completely wild when you say it out loud."
He leaned back against the bedpost, a playful, mischievous glint entering his eyes. "Though, to be fair, around this exact time yesterday, you were actively saving my life from that horrific pastry incident at the embassy. Talk about a memorable first impression."
Xavion let out a soft, exasperated sigh, though there was no real bite to it. "Grand Duke, you keep bringing that up. You make it sound as though I dragged you from a burning building or fended off a squad of assassins, when in truth, I merely performed a standard physical maneuver on someone who happened to swallow a dry tea-cake too quickly."
"A dry tea-cake can be lethal, Your Highness!" Lioren argued indignantly, pointing a finger at him with absolute conviction. "You are far too humble. Saving the Grand Duke of Werestia from choking to death on royal pastries is a massive, historic achievement. "I’m putting that on a plaque somewhere. ’Xavion Astervan: Defender of the Duke’s Throat.’ Very prestigious. Very important. People need to know what you did."
Xavion could only shake his head, a quiet, helpless sound escaping his throat. The man’s mind worked in ways that defied all known logic, veering wildly between dead-serious territorial lordship and complete nonsense. Yet, somehow, it was almost impossible to remain guarded around it.
"In any case," Lioren continued, his eyes lighting up as if a brand-new, brilliant idea had just struck him mid-thought, "speaking of grand, historic things... we are going out tomorrow!"
Xavion tilted his head slightly. "Out?"
"Yes! Out into the capital!" Lioren said, gesturing broadly toward the shuttered windows. "We still have a few days before we need to pack up the carriages and trek all the way north to the main estate, and I’ll be damned if I let you spend all your time cooped up inside this house staring at Therin’s boring oil paintings. You deserve to actually see the city."
He paused, his enthusiastic expression dimming just a fraction into a dramatic, exaggerated pout. "Unfortunately... Evelia insists on coming along too. She claims she needs to ’supervise my spending,’ which is absolute slander, but I suppose we’re stuck with her. Do you have any objections to a market excursion? If you’re too tired, we can easily push it back."
"I have no objections at all," Xavion answered, surprising himself with how easily the words came out. He looked at Lioren’s hopeful, expectant face and felt a faint, genuine warmth settle in his chest. "In fact, I would be quite happy to have the opportunity to see the capital."
Lioren’s face brightened so fast it was like someone had suddenly turned up the gas lamps. "Nice!" he beamed, snapping his fingers. "That’s what I like to hear! We’ll make a whole day of it. I know a place near the central plaza that sells these incredible spiced meat pies, though I promise I won’t choke on them this time."
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke, the air between them turning surprisingly peaceful.
Then, without any warning, Lioren straightened up from the bedpost and took two deliberate steps forward.
Xavion’s breath caught slightly in his throat. He didn’t move, couldn’t move, really, as the Grand Duke closed the distance between them with that breezy, unpredictable confidence. Lioren stopped remarkably close, so close that Xavion could smell the faint, clean scent of cedarwood soap and pine lingering on his skin.
Lioren leaned in just a fraction toward his face, his eyes searching Xavion’s features with a strange, sudden intensity.
Xavion’s single eye blinked instinctively a few times, his heart giving a sudden, ridiculous flutter against his ribs. Was he... what was he doing? Was this where the formal pretense dropped? Was he meant to lean back? Was he meant to...
Before Xavion’s military-trained brain could finish calculating three separate escape routes, Lioren reached right past his cheek, his hand sweeping toward the back of Xavion’s head.
With a soft, fluid motion, Lioren plucked the thick linen towel from where it had been draped loosely around Xavion’s shoulders, letting it dangle between his fingers.
Xavion froze, a sudden, burning heat flooding his ears as he realized what had just happened. He had completely misread the space.
"Your hair is still damp, you know," Lioren noted, holding up the towel and looking at him with a reprimanding, almost parental frown. "You’re standing near an open draft from the chimney with soaking wet hair. It would be a absolute tragedy if you caught a chill and fell ill after barely spending twenty-four hours under my roof. What kind of host would I look like then?"
Rather than lingering or turning the moment into something dramatic, Lioren simply folded the towel twice and pressed it neatly back into Xavion’s hands, his fingers lightly brushing against Xavion’s knuckles for a brief, fleeting second.
"Dry it properly before you go to sleep," Lioren instructed firmly, taking a deliberate step backward to restore a respectful distance between them.
He looked Xavion up and down one last time, satisfied that his guest was no longer in immediate danger of freezing to death from a damp scalp, and let out a small, satisfied nod.
"Right! I think that’s everything," Lioren said smoothly, turning on his heel toward the door. "I’ll let you get some rest now. I really am sorry for barging in so late and talking your ear off."
He paused at the threshold, resting his hand on the heavy brass latch, and turned back to offer Xavion a warm, brilliant smile that seemed to light up the dark wood of the hallway behind him.
"Goodnight, Prince Xavion," Lioren said softly. "Sleep well and sweet dreams."
"Goodnight, Grand Duke," Xavion managed to say, his voice steady despite the strange, quiet thrumming in his pulse.
The door swung shut with a quiet, solid click.
Xavion left all alone in the center of the room, staring at the closed door for a long, quiet moment. He looked down at his hands, at the neatly folded towel resting in his grip, and then over at the mug of spiced tea still sending up little ribbons of steam.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted the towel and began to rub the remaining moisture from his hair, a faint smile touching his lips in the dark.