Hans held himself back, though every fiber of his body wanted the opposite.
Henry knelt before him, close enough that Hans could feel his breath against his skin. Close enough that one more moment would carry them both across that boundary which had long existed only in Hans’ mind.
His fingers rested at Henry’s neck, slowly brushing through the dark hair, gliding to his cheek, as if he needed to make sure this man was truly here. That he was truly looking at him with that open, loyal gaze capable of tearing down every defense.
With his other hand, Hans moved across Henry’s chest. Not hurriedly, but searchingly, as if he wanted to understand every detail. The warmth. The strength. The soft hair beneath his fingers. The living pulse beneath the skin. Every touch was more dangerous than a sword.
He wanted to kiss him. God, how badly he wanted to.
But there was that old voice. The voice of duty and expectation. The voice that had told him for years what he was meant to be. That men like him were allowed to take, but never to feel. That desire was permitted, but devotion meant weakness.
Henry lifted his chin slightly, as if he could see every one of those thoughts.
Only his name. Nothing more.
And yet there was more permission in it than in a hundred vows.
Hans’ thumb brushed over the corner of Henry’s mouth. His gaze lingered on those lips, then returned to the eyes that neither pushed nor demanded. They only waited. Patient. Certain.
“If I begin this,” Hans murmured hoarsely, “I do not know if I will be able to stop.”
Henry’s mouth curved into a small, warm smile.
Something inside Hans broke apart in silence.
He leaned forward, slowly at first, as if giving himself one final chance to flee. But when their lips finally met, there was no caution left. Only the end of all restraint.
Henry answered him at once, gentle and resolute, as if he had always known this was exactly what Hans needed.
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