I feel awful.
“Cold,” I mumble, even though I’m burning. My skin feels too tight. Too sensitive. Like every nerve has been turned up too high.
“I know,” he says. “Just breathe.”
I try.
Something brushes my neck.
Not water.
Fingers.
They still.
“…what’s this?” he asks.
I don’t need a mirror to know he’s talking about the mark, even though my thoughts move like syrup. I try to lift a hand and fail.
“I—” My voice cracks. I swallow. “I don’t know.”
That’s not entirely true. I know exactly what it is. I just don’t have the strength to explain it. The words feel too heavy. Too complicated.
Sol doesn’t push.
I feel him shift behind me, his presence solid and unyielding, one hand firm between my shoulder blades when another wave of shivers hits. He wraps a towel around my shoulders while I’m still in the water, trapping heat like he’s building a barrier between me and everything else.
When he finally lifts me out, my legs barely cooperate. I cling to him without meaning to, forehead knocking gently against his chest.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“For what?” he asks.
“Being…like this.”
His chest rises under my cheek.
“Don’t,” he says flatly. “Just don’t.”
I’m dried off without really noticing when it happens. Wrapped. Patted. Turned. I register fabric being pulled over myhead – soft, worn cotton that smells faintly like him and a lot like laundry detergent. His clothes. Too big. Sleeves swallowing my hands. It feels safer than anything I’ve worn in days. Comforting.
My own clothes are gone.
Washed, maybe. Or discarded. I don’t ask.
The bed comes next.
His bed.
I know because it smells like salt and clean sheets and something grounding I can’t name. He tucks me in with brisk efficiency, pulling the duvet up around my shoulders, making sure I’m centred and warm. The mattress dips briefly as he adjusts the pillows, then stills.
My eyelids are so heavy they ache.
“Sol?” I murmur, the word barely there.
“Yeah.”
“Am I…dreaming?”