Aqua’s POV
I woke slowly.
Not all at once.
First warmth.
Then weight.
Then the quiet rise and fall of a chest beneath my cheek.
An arm rested around my waist.
For several seconds, I did not open my eyes.
I only breathed.
Soap.
Warm skin.
Steven.
My body knew him before the rest of me caught up.
I shifted slightly against him.
His arm tightened.
Not enough to trap me.
Only enough to acknowledge that I had moved.
“Morning.”
His voice was already awake.
That made me open my eyes.
He lay beside me, head propped slightly against the pillow, watching me.
The curtains had been opened just enough to let pale morning light into the room.
Fang remained curled in the armchair.
Still watching.
Had he been there all night?
The memory slipped when I reached for it.
My head felt stuffed with wool.
My limbs felt heavier than they should have.
Not painful.
Just slow.
Even my Currena moved sluggishly beneath my skin.
There.
Intact.
But muted.
Like water beneath ice.
“You’re awake,” I murmured.
“I have been for a little while.”
Calm.
His voice was so calm.
I tried to remember yesterday.
The sofa.
Fang’s yellow eyes.
My hand refusing to lift.
The room softening around the edges.
Then—
pieces.
Arms beneath me.
A voice near my ear.
My cheek against Steven’s chest.
Water touching my lips.
Someone telling me not to apologize.
Stay?
Had I asked that?
Maybe.
The memories after the sofa felt more like dreams than anything I could trust.
“You brought me here.”
“Yes.”
Shame twisted quietly through me.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
Firm enough to make me blink.
He shifted onto one elbow.
“Don’t apologize for collapsing.”
“I should have told you I was getting worse.”
“Yes.”
That surprised me.
His mouth softened.
“But we can argue about that after you’ve had water and food.”
There was a glass on the bedside table.
Full.
I did not remember it being there.
My chest tightened.
He had filled it.
He must have found me unconscious.
Carried me here.
Stayed.
And somehow I was the one waking up to him looking composed.
“I scared you.”
Something moved in his eyes.
“Yes.”
No lie.
That hurt more.
“I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I thought I could finish a few things and make it to the sofa, and then I—”
“Aqua.”
I stopped.
“You don’t have to explain all of it right now.”
His thumb moved once against my side.
“You’re awake. You’re talking. That’s enough for this morning.”
I looked at him.
Usually that would have been the beginning.
Not the end.
Usually he would ask whether I was dizzy.
Then whether I was sure.
Then whether I was really sure.
And somewhere between the second question and the third, I would start reassuring him more than answering.
I waited without meaning to.
Nothing came.
He simply watched me.
Maybe that was good.
Maybe finding me unconscious had frightened him badly enough that he had decided not to make me spend the morning calming him down too.
That sounded like something he would try.
I moved to sit.
The room shifted.
Not badly.
Enough.
His hand came to my back immediately.
“Slow.”
“I’m fine.”
The words escaped automatically.
He did not ask if I was sure.
He simply helped me upright and reached for the water.
“Drink.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Bossy.”
His mouth curved. “I’m learning.”
Something tugged faintly at my memory.
That phrase.
Had he said it last night?
Maybe.
I accepted the glass.
Fang’s head lifted from the armchair.
His yellow eyes fixed on me.
Steven glanced toward him.
“He says good.”
“I assumed.”
Fang’s tongue flicked.
Whatever else he said stayed between them.
I drank again.
The water helped.
A little.
When I lowered the glass, Steven took it and set it back on the table.
“You’re staying in bed for a while.”
“I have things to do.”
“No.”
My brows rose.
“Steven.”
“Aqua.”
“You cannot just say my name back to me.”
“I just did.”
A smile escaped.
His mouth curved too.
Slowly.
With less embarrassment than usual.
I dismissed the thought.
We had both had a terrible night.
Maybe neither of us was normal yet.
“I made breakfast,” he said.
I blinked.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“You left?”
“Earlier. You were still asleep.”
My gaze moved to Fang.
Still in the chair.
Still close to me.
So Steven had gotten up, gone to the kitchen, made food, and returned while Fang stayed behind.
That made sense.
It also made my chest ache.
“You made breakfast and came back?”
“I wanted to be here when you woke up.”
Heat moved into my face.
He noticed.
I knew he noticed.
Usually that alone would have put color into his own cheeks.
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It did not.
His gaze remained steady.
Almost amused.
That was new.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m looking.”
“That is another word for staring.”
“No. Staring is less charming.”
I stared at him.
His mouth curved.
My face grew hotter.
Oh.
So that was happening today.
I looked away.
Fang’s tongue flicked.
“Not a word.”
Steven glanced toward him.
Then back at me.
“He says he didn’t say anything.”
“He looked.”
“That apparently counts.”
“It does.”
Steven pushed himself out of bed.
“I’ll bring the food.”
“I can walk.”
“You can barely sit without the room moving.”
“I can walk.”
He studied me.
Not frightened.
Not angry.
Simply considering.
Then he held out his hand.
“Fine.”
I blinked.
That easy?
“You’re letting me?”
“I’m helping you.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is close enough.”
I took his hand.
His grip was warm.
Steady.
He waited while I stood.
My knees held.
Mostly.
Fang uncoiled slightly in the chair.
Steven looked toward him.
“He says ‘for now.’”
“I heard the judgment without translation.”
That earned a faint smile.
I took one step.
Then another.
The floor stayed where it belonged.
Good.
He did not hover.
Stayed close enough to catch me.
Did not touch unless I actually wobbled.
That should have made me feel trusted.
It did.
Mostly.
Breakfast was already arranged on the kitchen table.
Toast.
Fruit.
Honey.
Water.
All of it placed too neatly.
The apple slices almost matched.
The toast sat in a tidy stack.
Even the napkin looked like someone had considered its angle.
I looked at him.
“You did all this?”
“I am capable of toast.”
“I did not say you weren’t.”
“You looked like you were about to.”
“I was looking at the fruit.”
“What did the fruit do?”
“It is very organized.”
He glanced down.
“I cut it.”
“Yes.”
“That tends to make pieces.”
“Steven.”
His mouth twitched.
There.
Closer.
Familiar.
I sat slowly.
He remained standing until I settled.
Then he took the chair beside me.
He slid the plate closer.
“You’re eating.”
“I know.”
“That was not a question.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re really bossy today.”
His mouth curved. “I told you. I’m learning.”
Again.
That phrase.
I picked up a piece of toast.
“What about training?”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“No?”
“No training today.”
“Steven—”
“Or tomorrow, if you still look like this.”
“I look fine.”
“You look tired.”
“I am tired.”
“Exactly.”
Too clean.
That was what caught me.
He usually wrestled his way toward decisions.
Especially decisions involving Dylan.
Especially training.
There would normally be an argument with himself first.
A pause.
A qualification.
Another pause.
Then the thing he actually meant.
This version of him seemed to arrive with the answer already finished.
“My control is not worth this,” he said.
The toast stopped halfway to my mouth.
His eyes dropped briefly toward the table.
“I made training too important.”
His voice remained steady.
“Bigger than it should have been.”
My chest tightened.
“Steven.”
“I don’t want to be that kind of husband.”
The words should have sounded exactly right.
They almost did.
Maybe that was why they made me sad.
He usually found beautiful truths after fighting his way through every ugly thought standing in front of them.
This one came polished.
Ready.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
His gaze lifted.
Something almost amused passed through it.
“Yes, Aqua.”
I looked down at my toast.
Usually I was not the one asking twice.
Maybe he had frightened himself badly enough that he was trying to be the calm one today.
Trying not to make me worry about him when I was supposed to be recovering.
That thought helped.
It sounded like him.
Trying too hard because he thought he had failed someone.
“I’m sorry you found me like that.”
His expression shifted.
“Aqua.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
Again.
No false comfort.
No immediate attempt to erase what I had done.
Then his hand moved over mine.
Warm.
“You should have told me.”
His thumb brushed my knuckles.
“And I should have noticed.”
My throat tightened.
“So we can both be unhappy with ourselves later.”
The corner of my mouth moved.
He continued.
“After breakfast.”
That made me laugh quietly.
There.
That sounded like him.
I ate more than I expected.
Not much.
Enough.
He did not count bites.
Did not ask how I felt after every swallow.
He simply moved the water closer when I forgot it.
After breakfast, I stood to bring my plate to the sink.
He rose too.
“I can carry a plate.”
“I know.”
“You are following me.”
“I live here.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
He looked entirely innocent.
That made me suspicious.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
I set the plate in the sink.
The kitchen felt steadier now.
Still, when I reached for a cup in the upper cabinet, the room tilted slightly.
Not enough to fall.
Enough for my fingers to miss the handle.
He was behind me before I could try again.
One hand settled at my waist.
Warm.
Firm.
The other reached past me.
His chest barely brushed my back.
My breath caught.
He took the cup down and set it beside me.
“You could have asked.”
“I was already here.”
His hand remained at my waist.
Not gripping.
Not tentative either.
Usually this was the moment awareness would hit him.
How close we were.
Where his hand was.
How my back rested against his chest.
He would become conscious of every inch and somehow apologize without saying sorry.
Instead—
he stayed.
Calm.
Close.
I opened my mouth automatically.
“I’m fine.”
The words came before he had asked.
Except—
he had not asked.
He had steadied me.
Reached the shelf.
Solved the problem.
That was all.
I was not sure why that relieved me.
Or why some smaller part of me missed the question.
Maybe he was trying not to hover.
Maybe after finding me unconscious, he knew I was already worried about how badly I had scared him.
Maybe this was his way of telling me I did not need to take care of his fear today.
The thought softened me.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured.
“You say that like it is suspicious.”
“With you, sometimes.”
I turned enough to look at him.
His face was close.
Too close.
His gaze lowered briefly.
My mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
Heat climbed into my cheeks.
He noticed.
Did not blush.
Did not retreat.
His mouth curved.
Slow.
Knowing.
That was new.
“You seem pleased with yourself.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
His eyes moved over my face.
“I hope you don’t mind that I helped.”
“That is not why you look pleased.”
“No?”
“No.”
His smile deepened just enough.
“I just want you to rest properly.”
His thumb shifted once against my waist.
“And take care of yourself.”
My heart did something unhelpful.
I looked away first.
That annoyed me.
He released me.
Not reluctantly.
Not abruptly.
Simply because the moment was over.
I stared at the cup.
Maybe this was part of it too.
Acting normal.
Not turning every touch into something dangerous because of what the love aura depletion had done to me.
Not looking terrified every time I stood.
I had wanted him to worry less.
Hadn’t I?
I shook the thought away.
“I can help clean.”
“No.”
I turned.
“I am tired. Not useless.”
Something in his expression changed.
Very small.
Immediate.
“Useful?”
I frowned.
“Yes.”
He leaned back against the counter.
“Aqua.”
The way he said my name stopped me.
“You do not have to earn your place beside me by being useful.”
My chest tightened.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
I glanced around the kitchen.
Plate.
Towel.
Fruit knife.
Little things.
“I like doing things for you.”
“I know.”
“I like making breakfast. Tea. Keeping the house peaceful. Making sure you eat.”
“I know that too.”
“That doesn’t mean I think I have to earn anything.”
He watched me.
Not pitying.
Not accusing.
“You were barely able to stand yesterday.”
I looked away.
“And you still spent the day trying to make the house look normal so I wouldn’t worry.”
That startled me.
“How do you know?”
His gaze moved around the kitchen.
“The evidence was not subtle.”
I followed it.
The towel.
The cup.
The book.
Oh.
My face warmed.
“I didn’t want you to come home and think something was wrong.”
“Aqua.”
“I know.”
His hand rose.
Then stopped.
There.
That hesitation.
Familiar.
He waited.
I leaned slightly into the space.
His fingers touched my cheek.
Soft.
My chest loosened.
“You do not have to make yourself useful to deserve being here,” he said.
Beautiful.
Right.
Almost too easy.
He usually arrived at truths like that scraped open.
Said the wrong thing.
Went quiet.
Came back later with what he really meant.
This version of him already seemed to know.
His thumb moved gently over my cheek.
“You’re thinking too much again.”
“That sounds like something I usually tell you.”
“Then maybe I’m learning.”
I smiled despite myself.
Maybe he was.
Maybe I needed to let him.
Fang remained in the bedroom armchair when I went back to rest.
He had not followed Steven around.
He had not needed to.
His concern was me.
That much was obvious the moment I entered and his head lifted.
“I ate.”
Steven looked toward him.
“He says good.”
“I drank water.”
Another pause.
“He says not enough.”
“You are impossible.”
Fang stared.
Steven glanced back at me.
“He says rest.”
“I assumed that one too.”
I climbed carefully onto the bed.
Steven adjusted the pillows without being asked.
Then, instead of sitting beside me, he crossed to the other chair near the window.
Far enough to give me room.
Close enough to watch.
I looked at him.
“What?”
“You’re far away.”
His brows rose.
“I thought you wanted space.”
“I do.”
“Then?”
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth.
He studied me.
Not anxiously.
Simply waiting.
I hated how much I liked it.
“Come here.”
Something shifted in his expression.
Then he stood.
Sat at the edge of the bed.
Still did not touch me.
Waiting.
That felt familiar enough that I reached for his hand.
His fingers closed around mine immediately.
Better.
“There.”
His mouth curved.
“There?”
“Yes.”
“That was apparently the correct distance.”
“Do not be smug.”
“I would never.”
That sounded suspicious.
I closed my eyes.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Exhaustion tugged at me again.
Not as brutally as yesterday.
Still there.
My body rebuilding what I had spent.
Love aura.
Energy.
Everything I had pushed past.
“I’m not going to training,” I said.
His thumb moved over my hand.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’ll rest.”
“I know.”
My eyes opened.
“That’s all?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“What else do you want?”
I almost laughed.
I did not know.
Something more, apparently.
Instead I said, “Nothing.”
He accepted it.
I let the silence stay.
Later, after lunch, I felt better.
Not well.
Better.
Enough to sit in the living room with a blanket over my legs.
Dylan’s folder remained closed on the table.
Steven did not touch it.
That might have been the strangest thing all day.
I glanced at it.
Then at him.
“You really aren’t training.”
“No.”
“You didn’t even open the folder.”
“No.”
“Are you sick?”
His brows lifted.
“Aqua.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“I thought you would at least look.”
“I don’t want to.”
That stopped me.
He leaned back in the armchair opposite the sofa.
“I want today to be ours.”
My heart softened.
“No field?”
“No.”
“No drills?”
“No.”
“No aura?”
His gaze sharpened.
“Definitely no love aura.”
I winced.
He noticed.
His face softened.
“I’m not angry.”
“I know.”
“I mean at you.”
“I know that too.”
Everything correct.
Everything in place.
“You don’t have to say everything perfectly.”
His eyes held mine.
“Maybe I want to.”
That made me sad.
I pulled the blanket higher.
“You don’t have to fix everything because I collapsed.”
His expression changed.
Something quieter.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
There it was.
Me asking twice again.
For one second, something almost playful touched his face.
“Yes.”
I looked down at my hands.
Maybe this was all it was.
He was trying.
Trying very hard not to make my recovery become another reason I had to soothe him.
Trying to be steady because I had scared him.
Trying to give me what he thought I needed.
That explanation settled comfortably enough that I let it.
He had earned one day without falling apart.
I could let him have that.
By afternoon, hunger returned.
A good sign.
He brought soup, bread, and fruit into the sitting room.
Nothing elaborate.
“You planned all this?”
“No.”
“You seem very prepared.”
“I know where the kitchen is.”
“That has never made you prepared before.”
His mouth twitched.
“There she is.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“That Aqua answer.”
My face warmed.
Something in the way he said it—
like he had been waiting for me to sound like myself.
I looked down at the soup.
“You are strange today.”
The words escaped before I decided whether to say them.
Silence.
Brief.
Then:
“I had a strange night.”
Fair.
I looked at him.
“Did you really panic?”
“Yes.”
Quiet.
“What happened?”
He rested his forearms against his knees.
“I came home.”
His eyes dropped to his hands.
“Saw you on the sofa.”
For the first time all day, roughness entered his voice.
“I thought I had done exactly what I promised I would never do.”
My chest hurt.
“Steven.”
“I ran.”
“I remember pieces.”
His gaze lifted.
“You do?”
“Your arms, I think. Water. You telling me not to apologize.”
I frowned, reaching for more.
“And I think I asked you to stay.”
“You did.”
Heat crept into my face.
“Oh.”
His smile softened.
“You were exhausted.”
“That does not make it less embarrassing.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
For a moment—
there.
Familiar.
I relaxed.
“What happened when you ran?”
His gaze shifted away.
“I needed to get myself under control.”
That sounded true enough to ache.
“I didn’t want to come back and make you wake up just so you could spend your energy convincing me you were okay.”
My breath caught.
There it was.
The explanation I had been building for him all day.
Not exactly.
Close enough.
“You thought I would do that?”
“Yes.”
“You know me too well.”
His mouth curved.
“I’m starting to.”
The wording tugged at me.
Starting?
Then he added:
“Better.”
Oh.
I let it go.
“So you came back calm.”
“I came back able to help.”
My chest softened.
That made sense.
Maybe I had been noticing differences all day because I expected to wake to the version of him who needed comforting.
Instead, he had already done that part somewhere I had not seen.
Maybe all I was seeing now was what remained after.
A husband who had decided I did not need his panic.
Only him.
I liked that explanation.
So I kept it.
And after that—
I stopped looking so hard.
Evening came quietly.
My body had begun to ache in the heavy way that meant sleep wanted me before I wanted it.
Fang remained close.
Always.
When we returned to the bedroom, he settled into the armchair again.
I sat on the edge of the mattress.
Steven stood nearby.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked:
“Are you afraid to touch me?”
The question surprised both of us.
His expression changed.
“No.”
“After yesterday?”
“No.”
“You hesitated this morning.”
“I was trying to let you choose.”
That answer loosened something inside me.
I looked at my hands.
“I don’t want you afraid of me because of the aura.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“Of hurting me, then.”
His jaw tightened.
More familiar.
“I’m afraid of taking.”
He stepped closer.
“Not touching.”
My breath caught.
There.
That sounded right.
He sat in the other armchair.
Fang lifted his head from his own.
Two chairs.
Two watchers.
A laugh almost escaped me.
Steven noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am.”
“At?”
“You and Fang.”
His gaze moved toward Fang.
“What did we do?”
“You both look like guards.”
Steven looked toward him again.
Then back at me.
“I’m not going to kiss her.”
Heat rushed into my face.
“Steven!”
Fang’s head lifted.
Steven paused, listening.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
“He says he didn’t ask.”
“That makes it worse.”
“You were the one who said we looked like guards.”
“I did not invite commentary.”
His eyes stayed on me.
He was enjoying this.
Openly.
Not awkwardly.
Not secretly.
And my face was still hot.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
That was new.
I should have disliked it.
I did not.
That might have been more alarming.
He stood.
Crossed the space between us.
Then stopped.
Close.
Not touching.
“May I?”
My heart softened.
I nodded.
He leaned down and kissed my forehead.
Only my forehead.
Gentle.
Warm.
Then he drew back.
No blush.
No nervous laugh.
No eyes immediately searching mine to make sure I had liked it.
I missed that.
Unexpectedly.
Ridiculously.
I reached for his hand before he moved away.
“Stay with me?”
His fingers closed around mine.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The words stirred another fragment of memory.
Dark room.
Heavy eyes.
The same voice.
The same answer.
Maybe last night had not been a dream after all.
I shifted farther onto the bed.
He sat beside me.
Then lay down when I tugged at his hand.
Fang watched from the chair.
Always watching.
I rested my head near Steven’s shoulder.
His arm moved around me.
Natural.
Confident.
Almost too natural.
I closed my eyes.
Maybe this was what I had wanted.
Him without the constant fear.
Him trusting me.
Trusting himself.
Able to touch me without acting as though every instinct made him dangerous.
I should have been happy.
I was.
Partly.
But beneath it sat something quieter.
A missing thing I still could not name.
I had my explanation now.
He had panicked.
He had gone away long enough to get himself under control.
He had come back determined not to make me carry his fear too.
That explained the calm.
The confidence.
The strange steadiness.
At least—
it should have.
His thumb moved slowly over my arm.
“You’re thinking too much.”
I smiled against his shoulder.
“So are you.”
“Not tonight.”
So sure.
I lifted my head.
His face was Steven’s.
Blue eyes.
Dark hair.
The familiar mouth I had kissed too many times to count.
My husband.
Trying.
Probably harder than I understood.
I touched his cheek.
He leaned into my palm.
That helped.
A lot.
Maybe I needed to stop looking for the version of him who had existed yesterday.
Maybe this was simply another piece of him.
A steadier one.
A sharper one.
One I had not learned yet.
I settled back against him.
His arm tightened around my waist.
Fang remained awake in the chair.
The room grew quiet.
He was almost himself.
Almost.
And after last night—
I told myself almost was enough.