one of the most insane things about hollanov is how shane loves ilya so deliberately.
not loudly. not impulsively. but with planning and restraint and this quiet, terrifying kind of hope. shane doesn’t just want ilya. he architects a future where ilya can exist safely with him. visas. contracts. timelines. sacrifices he never even frames as sacrifices because to him it’s just… obvious. of course you make room for the person you love. of course you build a life that can hold them. and ilya, who grew up loved in fragments and attention and heat but never permanence, is suddenly faced with someone who is choosing him in spreadsheets and sleepless nights and long-term risk. no wonder it breaks him open. no wonder it takes him so long to say it. loving ilya is shane’s plan, not his weakness, and ilya realizing that might be the most radical thing that’s ever happened to him.
Requesting Reader pampering Dan Heng (especially in his Imbibitor Lunae form). 🙏 Washing and brushing his hair, drawing a bath for him after the shower, helping Pom-Pom cook healthy meals for him, leaving snacks and drinks for him at the door outside of the archives (and telling March to ask first before taking any bc March’s room is right next to the archives lol), reminding him once in a while to drink water and stretch, massaging his back and neck, making sure the temperature in the archives isn’t too warm or cold—
I just really need Dan Heng to be pampered, he deserves it.
As the Lotus Floats, So Shall You
Summary: You quietly care for Dan Heng, particularly in his Imbibitor Lunae form. You take the time to pamper him, washing and brushing his long hair, preparing his bath, cooking healthy meals, and offering gentle reminders to care for himself. Despite his reserved nature and the weight of his past, Dan Heng allows himself to be cared for, slowly finding comfort in your presence and your attentive gestures.
Tags: Dan Heng IL x Reader, Fluff, Comfort, Soft Caretaking, Slow Burn, Quiet Devotion, Light Domestic.
Dan Heng was always difficult to care for—not because he rejected kindness, but because he often didn’t know how to receive it. In his Imbibitor Lunae form, the weight of past lives pressed heavier on his shoulders, making him even more withdrawn, more hesitant to accept the warmth you so willingly offered. But that never stopped you from trying.
It started small. A cup of tea left outside the archives, a careful arrangement of his favorite snacks placed neatly beside it. You made sure to leave a note—March, please ask before taking. Because while you adored her, you also knew her appetite for anything remotely edible was insatiable. Dan Heng never said anything about the offerings, but you noticed how they always disappeared by morning, the cup emptied, the snacks gone.
Then came the gentle reminders. Drink water. Stretch your legs. The stars will still be there if you take a break. Sometimes, you caught him actually following your advice, rolling his shoulders with a sigh as he took slow sips of water. Other times, he merely glanced at you with that unreadable expression of his—fond, if you dared to hope—before returning to his studies.
But tonight, you were taking things a step further.
Dan Heng sat at the edge of his bed, his long still damp from his shower. His horns glowed faintly in the dim light of the archives, curling elegantly above his head. He looked ethereal, otherworldly, but also exhausted.
“You don’t have to fuss over me,” he murmured, even as you settled behind him, fingers threading through his hair with practiced ease.
“I know,” you said simply, reaching for the brush. “But I want to.”
He let out a quiet sigh but didn’t protest further, leaning slightly into your touch as you worked through the tangles. His hair was silk beneath your fingertips, heavy with the scent of lotus and green tea—something you had picked for him, knowing how much he preferred subtle, soothing fragrances.
Minutes passed in comfortable silence. You brushed with slow, deliberate strokes, making sure to be gentle around his horns. Dan Heng’s shoulders gradually relaxed, tension melting away as you worked.
“You’re warm,” he admitted after a while, voice quiet, almost drowsy.
You smiled. “Is the temperature in here okay? I can adjust it if it’s too cold.”
“It’s fine.” A pause. “You always make sure of that.”
The admission sent warmth curling in your chest, but you didn’t dwell on it. Instead, you set the brush aside, fingers moving to massage the knots in his neck. He tensed briefly at the first touch, then sighed, his head tilting slightly as he allowed himself to relax under your care.
“Turn around,” you coaxed gently.
Dan Heng hesitated but obeyed, shifting so that he faced you, his eyes half-lidded with weariness. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze held something soft, something vulnerable that he rarely let show.
You reached for a towel, carefully dabbing at the ends of his hair before moving to his horns, wiping away any lingering moisture with delicate precision. Your fingers brushed against the smooth, translucent surface, and Dan Heng exhaled sharply, eyes flickering shut for a brief moment.
“Sensitive?” you asked.
“A little.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
You softened your touch, mindful of the sensation. When you finished, you stood, moving toward the small bath you had prepared for him earlier. The water was just the right temperature, infused with calming herbs meant to ease fatigue.
“Come on,” you said, offering him your hand. “It’s ready.”
Dan Heng eyed you for a long moment before exhaling softly. He took your hand, fingers cool against your palm, and allowed you to guide him toward the bath. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t have to. The way he looked at you—the way he let himself be cared for—was more than enough.
And when you left a final note by the archives later that night, reminding him to rest well, you knew he would see it. Just as you knew, without a doubt, that he would take it to heart.
He writes in silence and stares like he’s waiting for permission to breathe. You don’t ask to take space—you fill it. In the quiet corners of the library, he learns to follow your voice like a lighthouse in fog. He gives you his poetry, his eyes, his quiet obedience. You take your time. You take him apart. And he loves you for it.
(dominant!reader × sub!boy)
He always sits in the same spot—back corner of the library, hunched over a notebook that’s more scribble than sense. There’s something quiet about him, something that draws you in like a whisper in a dark room. You’re not even sure why you approach him the first time. Maybe it’s the way he curls in on himself, like he’s trying to disappear but secretly hoping someone will notice.
And you do.
You sit across from him without asking, unfold your laptop, and start typing like you belong there. You do. He doesn’t say anything, but you catch his eyes flicking up every few minutes like he’s waiting for you to vanish. You don’t. You never do.
You speak first, of course.
“You always stare like that, or am I just special?”
He flinches, barely, like he wasn’t expecting you to catch him. Then he smiles, small and uncertain. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Sure you didn’t,” you cut in, calm, amused. “What are you writing?”
He hesitates. You know he’s the type that wants to be known but doesn’t know how to let it happen. So you lean forward just slightly, resting your chin in your hand, and wait. The moment stretches. Then he slides the notebook across the table like it weighs too much to hold.
You read a few lines, quiet.
It’s poetry. Messy, raw, unfiltered. It aches. It’s good.
When you look up, he’s watching you like he wants your approval more than air.
“You’re not terrible,” you say, tone flat on purpose. He exhales a laugh, like it’s the highest praise he’s ever gotten. You know it is.
After that, he waits for you.
He never texts first. Never asks you to come. But he’s always there, always in that same seat, always with a new page in that battered notebook like he’s writing just for you. And maybe he is. You start reading his poetry aloud, right there in the library. Slow. Clear. Each word hangs in the air like it means something important. He listens with that look again—like you’re gravity and he’s tired of floating.
He starts asking questions after a while. Quiet ones. About your favorite books. Your favorite songs. About the scar near your elbow or why you always wear rings on your index finger.
You never lie, but you don’t give everything either. You like the way he leans in to understand. Like he’s trying to map the stars just to know where you’re standing.
Sometimes, you tell him what to read. What to listen to. What to write about. He does all of it. No hesitation. You never ask—just say, and it happens.
One evening, when the library’s empty and the sky outside is bleeding orange and pink, you say,
“Come here.”
He pauses for half a second before obeying, like it’s a reflex. You tilt his chin up with your fingers, study the faint blush on his cheeks, the way his breath hitches.
“You always listen this well?”
He nods. Barely.
You smile. “Good.”
You don’t kiss him—not yet. You don’t need to. Not when he’s already given himself over in a hundred quiet ways. In the way he waits. In the way he listens. In the way he watches your hands like they hold the answers to questions he’s never been brave enough to ask.
Later, when he finally breaks and says,
“I think I’d do anything you asked,”
you don’t act surprised.
You just take his hand and whisper,
“I know.”
And he smiles like he’s just been ruined in the best way.
I was on the couch, writing, when he came home. I could feel the shift in the atmosphere immediately; a heavy, storm-like energy followed him in. He’d had a rough day. He exhaled, a sound longer and heavier than usual, before walking toward me. He took his time, his eyes devouring the view: me, draped in an oversized shirt, a dark lace thong tracing the curve of my hip, legs crossed with my laptop balanced on my lap.
He slowly brushed my leg, his palm like a brand against my skin. He let one finger linger a second too long, a silent promise, then pressed a soft kiss to my forehead before sliding his other hand under the weight of my hair to cup the nape of my neck. He kissed me then, a passionate, deep kiss, hungry and desperate, as if he wanted to breathe in my serenity to drown out the echoes of his day.
He pulled back and sank into the leather chair across the room. He rolled his sleeves up his muscular forearms, unbuttoning his white shirt halfway down his chest, his gaze heavy and insistent, pinning me in place. I bit my lip, closed the laptop, and uncrossed my legs with agonizing slowness.
I stood and walked toward him. I stayed there, hovering over him for a full minute, watching his eyes roam over me like a prayer. I leaned forward, resting my hands on his thighs, and slowly sank to my knees between his legs. I unbuckled his belt, the metallic click echoing sharply in the stillness. I unzipped his pants and helped him slide them down his thighs, my knuckles brushing against his heat. He was already hard, straining against the fabric, his body demanding what I was more than ready to give.
Replacing my hands on his hips, I bit the waistband of his boxers to slowly ease his length out of its restraint. He let out a low, gravelly grunt, the kind of primal sound that makes my heart stutter. At this very moment, I was entirely devoted to him. I flicked my tongue out, licking him from the base to the tip, savoring the hot, salty essence of him. I moved my left hand to his thigh while the other wandered over his stomach, feeling the jagged, rhythmic pull of his breath.
With a smirk, I took him deeply into my mouth. The heat was instantaneous, a velvet glove of friction. I swirled my tongue around the sensitive ridge, my throat tightening as I drew him in further. I focused on the wet slide of my lips against his skin, making sure he felt every vibration of the soft moans trapped in my throat. I used my hand to stroke the base in sync with my mouth, creating a relentless, pulsing pressure that had him gripping the arms of the leather chair until his knuckles turned white. I looked up, holding his gaze through the haze of my own need, his eyes dark with a feral, devouring hunger.
He grabbed my hair, his fingers anchoring me as he began to dictate the pace. I followed his lead, taking him deeper, welcoming the raw intensity of him hitting the back of my throat, filling me completely.
Then I felt it, that sudden surge, the moment his body coiled tight to release the day's frustration. He became thicker, veinier, pulsing rhythmically against my tongue. He threw his head back, and in a final symphony of moans and grunts, he filled my mouth with his heat.
I didn't pull away. I stayed there, looking up at him through my lashes as I swallowed every drop of his release, letting him feel my devotion until the very last quiver. He let out one final, shaky breath, his hand softening its grip on my hair to gently caress my cheek. The room was silent again, the air heavy with the musk of skin and pleasure, the frustration of his day finally dissolved.
After a moment, I shifted, resting my cheek against the warmth of his thigh. I stayed there, curled at his feet, listening to the erratic thrum of his heart slowly finding its rhythm again. He didn't say a word; he simply rested his heavy hand on my head, his fingers weaving through my hair in a slow, grounding caress.
I let my gaze linger on him, still half-hard and glistening in the amber light. I reached out, trailing a single finger along the underside of his length, tracing the path from base to tip over and over. It was a slow, ghost-like touch, lazy and satisfied. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, his body finally sinking into the leather of the chair, the last of the day’s tension melting away under my fingertip.
Image was captured by @playpausephoto, who somehow saw Hans exactly as I did in that one moment. Thank you so much.
Further - Part VII
Still Here
This chapter opens at the very moment Part VI ends.
Hans and Henry come back to Devil's Den —
only to find it deserted.
—
"Something's wrong.”
Henry’s voice barely carried.
“Really wrong.”
They took a few steps forward.
Then — a whistle.
Sharp. Deliberate.
And a voice from the trees:
“Henry?”
They turned.
A man emerged from the underbrush, his clothes brushing against branches. The face that followed — worn, but known.
“Janosh…?”
“We feared you wouldn’t make it,” Janosh said softly.
Then tilted his head. “Come. It’s… not safe here.”
Hans furrowed his brow.
“Where is everyone?”
“They took Katherine,” Janosh replied.
“Zizka will explain. The camp’s close. A patch of forest, a climb — we’ll be there soon.”
Henry took the reins in hand.
He and Hans fell in behind him, silent.
Beneath the canopy, Hans glanced at him.
Henry met his eyes.
When they finally emerged from the woods, a narrow hollow opened beneath the rocks. Low-draped tarps, a fire ring of rough stones. A few scattered figures. Silence.
One of the men raised his head. Watched them for a moment — then rose. Others followed.
No shouts. Just a few steps forward.
Someone halted halfway. Someone else lowered their gaze.
Then Zizka stepped into view. Leaning against a stone, firelight catching in his eyes.
“So you’re alive,” he said flatly, then paused.
“We expected you back by the third day. At the latest.”
Hans took half a step back.
“Henry was injured,” he said. Not harshly — but with force.
“They attacked us. Right where you sent us. We cleared out the bandits. And stayed a while, until he recovered.”
Brief silence.
Zizka looked at Henry — then back at Hans.
At last, he gave a small nod.
“All right.”
His eyes drifted between the two of them. Then he nodded toward the fire.
“Three days after you left, Katherine was taken. In Horschan. She was on her way for supplies. Betty from the bath tents was with her.”
A pause.
“They grabbed her in broad daylight. A handful of armed men. Betty was walking ahead — they didn’t notice her. She hid, then ran back.”
Another silence.
“It wasn’t random. They were after her. The girl didn’t recognize them, but she heard them say they’d head for Hlizov before nightfall.”
No one spoke.
Henry lowered his head. Hans stood beside him, hands clenched.
Zizka went on.
“We don’t know if it’s a trap. Or if Hlizov was just a bluff. But it’s far — a full day’s ride. And none of us knows the terrain.”
A beat.
“So we pulled back. If they could reach Katherine, they might try to come for us next.
We left watchers around the Den — to see if anyone made a move.”
He looked up again — to Henry.
“And now that you’re back…”
He left it there.
His gaze touched Hans too.
Then added, simply:
“…we can decide what comes next.”
He granted them a silent nod — just the tilt of his chin.
“Find a place to settle. Then come speak with me.”
At that moment, Godwin passed behind him, carrying firewood.
Zizka just waved a hand. “Father. Show them where to rest.”
Godwin set the wood on the pile near the fire, dusted off his hands, and turned to them.
“Come,” he said plainly.
He led them between the boulders off to the right.
The path narrowed into shadow. The air was cooler here.
“Not far,” he said over his shoulder. “Bit out of the way. No one breathing down your necks.”
They walked in silence.
Then, without turning:
“You two all right?”
Henry gave a short nod.
“It was worse. It’s passed now.”
Hans said nothing for a while.
“How are things here?” he asked. “With the others.”
Godwin shrugged.
“Tense. No one knows what’s coming.”
A short pause.
“But having you back — that’s good news to everyone.”
He stopped.
A space between two rocks. One low tree. A patch of flatter ground. A folded tarp nearby.
“This should work. If the wind picks up, you can stretch another cover across the branches.”
He looked at them both.
“Full dark’s coming. If you mean to speak to Zizka, best not wait too long.”
Then he turned and walked off. Slowly. Without another word.
A few branches lay scattered on the ground — someone had started building a shelter here and never finished.
Henry crouched down, picked up the tarp, and spread it across the grass between the rocks.
Hans, meanwhile, unrolled two blankets from his pack and set them aside.
“Here, or a little higher up?” Henry asked, eyeing a spot to drive the first stake.
“Here. Wind’ll come from the other side,” Hans replied without hesitation.
They drove the stakes, pulled the rope taut.
Henry held; Hans tied.
Their hands brushed — brief, natural.
No one spoke.
Then they laid out fir boughs. First on the ground, then as makeshift walls along the sides.
Two separate beds.
Henry handed Hans the other end of the tarp.
“They said they wanted to be in Hlizov by nightfall. Who could be behind it?”
Hans slipped a loop into a hook and gave it a firm tug.
“Strange they’d name the place. Makes me wonder if they ever meant to go there at all.”
Henry hesitated.
“Maybe someone wants us to think that.”
Hans didn’t answer.
He picked up a branch, snapped it clean, and wedged it between the rope and the tarp — stretching it wider.
As they layered boughs over the two beds, Henry suddenly looked up.
“Wasn’t Bushek from Hlizov?”
Hans turned.
“Right. I knew I’d heard the name before.”
He looked at Henry.
“If they’re from Hlizov, they might’ve seen something. Maybe it’s worth checking.”
Henry nodded thoughtfully.
“Might be worth a try.”
They laid out the blankets — one to each side. Henry added a scrap of old tarp, hung it between them — just symbolic, but in the dusk, it gave a sense of privacy.
“It’s not much,” Hans said. “But it’ll do for the night.”
The camp fire crackled low — the wood still green, reluctant.
Smoke drifted thick and slow, clinging to the damp of evening.
Godwin sat back against a stone. Zizka perched slightly higher up, hands folded on his knees.
Dry Devil knelt opposite them, setting strips of birch bark around the firepit like a man testing the patience of flame.
Henry and Hans approached in silence.
Henry sat down. Hans remained standing for a breath, then lowered into a crouch by the fire.
No one spoke at first.
“We met a family near Grund yesterday,” Henry said. “They said they’re from Hlizov. Might know something.
They seemed cautious, but that doesn’t have to mean bad intentions.”
Zizka nodded.
“Good idea.”
A pause.
“But I need you here, Henry. For all we know, they may be trying to split us up.”
Hans said, soft and unprompted:
“I’ll go. I’ll see what they know. They owe us, in any case. We helped them.”
Henry looked at him.
Didn’t answer — just the silence. But it stretched long.
Dry Devil raised a brow, then snorted faintly.
“Let Capon go. He’ll have them begging to talk just so he’ll shut up.”
A short silence. Zizka glanced at Hans — without irony — and nodded.
“All right, Sir Capon. Maybe you’ll find something. We’ll wait for your return.”
Hans said nothing.
He didn’t even roll his eyes.
Just gave a short, almost polite nod — and bit down whatever retort had come to mind.
“I’ll leave at first light,” he said, steady.
Godwin just blinked into the fire.
Said nothing.
They returned to the shelter and sat down side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
The wind stirred the canvas.
From the camp came only the occasional voice, quiet and distant.
They sat for a while, without speaking.
Then Hans turned to Henry.
“What’s wrong?”
Henry looked at him briefly, exhaled.
“It’s just… it doesn’t sit right. Not going with you.
That’s all.”
Hans looked out into the dark for a moment. Then slowly reached out and took his hand.
“If it were up to you, you wouldn’t let me go. I know.”
Henry gave the faintest of smiles.
“Damn right I wouldn’t.”
Hans leaned in slightly and kissed him. A soft touch.
Henry’s fingers closed around his hand, a little tighter.
“They took Katherine in broad daylight. We’ve no idea who’s still out there. Or who they’re after next,” Henry said, his voice taut.
Hans then reached for the blanket and pulled it lower over their legs.
He didn’t say anything more.
Neither did Henry.
They sat together a little longer, before lying down on their separate beds of fir and canvas.
Each on their own side — yet no more than a breath apart.
Henry turned onto his side and reached out.
His fingers slid into Hans’s hair.
Hans gave a faint smile and closed his eyes.
Henry’s hand came to rest on his shoulder — quiet, steady.
“Do you think you’ll learn anything from them?” he asked after a while.
“I don’t know,” Hans replied. “But I don’t want to ride out and come back empty-handed.”
Henry was staring into the dark ahead of him.
“You don’t have to prove anything. Not to me.”
Hans was silent for a moment.
“I know,” he said softly.
Henry gently brushed his arm.
Then leaned back again, head against his folded cloak, and closed his eyes.
“Just be careful.”
Hans gave a faint smile.
“I will. For you.”
They were up before the light found the treetops.
That silent grey hour, when night hasn’t quite let go and day hasn’t quite begun.
The camp was still asleep.
Hans stood by their shelter, already dressed in light armour —
a short chestplate, leather gloves.
A sword at his hip. A bow on his back.
Henry was there, tightening the last strap across his ribs.
“Do you want to take anything else?” he asked quietly.
Hans shook his head.
“The less, the better.”
Henry was silent for a moment.
Then, quietly, with a trace of worry:
“If anything changes — don’t wait. Just come back.”
Hans nodded.
“I’ll be careful.”
He mounted. The saddle creaked once, then quiet.
Henry stepped closer, placed his hand on Hans’s thigh.
Hans looked down at him — calm, steady.
“I’ll be back before nightfall,” he said softly.
And then he rode.
Down the narrow path between rocks.
Into the dark that was no longer night — but not yet day.
Henry stood there for a while, unmoving.
He rubbed his palm once.
Looked down the path Hans had taken.
Not to follow — just to see the emptiness it left.
Then he turned and made his way back to the shelter, where nothing waited for him but fir boughs and silence.
He lingered a moment.
Then he bent down, folded Hans’s cloak — half-slipped, half-forgotten — and tucked it gently back into the pack.
Afterwards, he sat.
Reached for his own gear. Not to prepare.
Just because it was something to do.
A way to move. A way not to think.
His hands moved with quiet precision, but his eyes weren’t really following.
As if half of him was still on the path Hans had taken.
He was threading a buckle — one he’d already checked —
when a step sounded nearby.
Godwin stood at a distance. Arms crossed.
“He’s gone?” he asked.
Henry nodded.
Didn’t lift his gaze.
“Said he’d be back by nightfall.”
Godwin didn’t reply right away.
Then he sat down on the nearest stone, slow and steady.
His eyes settled on Henry’s hands, still working a strap that didn’t need fixing.
“Funny,” he murmured.
“How the hands can keep moving when the rest of you is somewhere else.”
The forest had begun to thin.
The trees gave way, light crawling up the leaves and clinging low —
as if morning itself was reluctant to rise.
Hans rode at a steady trot.
The horse breathed evenly.
The ground beneath them was soft with last night’s dew.
All around was quiet.
Too quiet, perhaps.
Which only sharpened his senses more.
He wasn’t afraid — not exactly.
But the rhythm of the morning still pulsed in his limbs:
fast, exact, with no room for error.
He never once looked back.
But he knew, with painful clarity, exactly where he’d left the camp.
And who remained there.
By the time the trees thinned and the hills opened wide,
the sun was already climbing past late morning. Grund lay ahead —
low cottages, a chimney, scattered stone walls.
He didn’t slow.
Just turned slightly south, toward a cluster of buildings nestled behind a hedgerow —
the farmstead he remembered.
Hans dismounted.
He slung the reins over a wooden post by the fence,
then stepped toward the house.
The gate creaked — first a sliver, then a bit more.
Bushek emerged from the shadows,
his sleeves rolled up, hands still dusty from work.
When he saw Hans, he froze for a second.
“Sir Capon… we weren’t expecting you back so soon.”
Hans gave a brief nod — not formal, but steady.
“I wasn’t planning it either. But I need your help.”
Bushek glanced toward the house, then back at Hans.
There was a pause — a flicker of hesitation.
But it lasted only a breath.
He motioned for Hans to follow.
They moved toward a low wall beneath a tree.
A few steps away, little Jakub sat in the grass.
He was fiddling with a stick,
a piece of string tied around it like reins on a toy horse.
He was listening.
But not watching.
Hans spoke quietly.
“I need to know if there are soldiers in Hlizov.
Or armed men — anyone who doesn’t belong.”
Bushek stopped.
Didn’t answer right away.
His eyes drifted again to the house,
then back to Hans.
For a moment, it seemed like he wouldn’t speak.
Hans kept still,
but lowered his voice further.
“Bushek… if you know anything, I need to hear it.
It’s important.”
Bushek nodded — not in agreement,
but as if to say: I understand.
Then he said softly,
“A few days ago, some men took over a farmstead west of the village.
Small place. Not many of them — five, maybe six.
They leave the villagers alone…
but everyone knows they’re there.
And keeps their distance.”
Hans opened his mouth —
but a small voice interrupted.
“And they’ve got a fish with wings on their tunics!”
Both men turned.
Hans crouched slightly.
“What did you say, boy?”
Jakub shrugged.
“On those red coats.
There’s a fish.
With wings.”
Bushek gave a slow nod.
“Yes, sir. Red tabards.
And something that looked like a flying fish on them.”
Hans went quiet.
His eyes dropped — almost to the ground.
“Bergow.”
Bushek watched him.
“You know them, my lord?”
Hans nodded.
“We’ve… met.
Once or twice.”
Bushek described the place as clearly as he could.
A small estate, half-forgotten, tucked behind a line of overgrown hedges on the western edge of Hlizov.
One path led in from the main road,
but it was possible to reach it from the woods —
quietly, and unseen — if one knew the way.
Hans nodded.
He thanked him, took his hand in parting,
and swung himself back into the saddle.
He glanced once more across the yard —
but no one else came out.
He turned the horse toward the road to the camp and set off.
The trail curved through brush and bramble, narrowing into woodland again.
Silence thickened, the air cooling with shade.
A few minutes passed.
Then Hans slowed.
Not suddenly —
as if something in his chest had shifted, not in the reins.
He brought the horse to a stop.
Waited.
Stared at the path ahead as though it would speak.
Then turned the horse around.
He didn’t move at first.
Just sat there, breathing slowly, eyes half-lidded.
His jaw was tight.
He drew a slow breath.
“Audentes fortuna iuvat.”
He dug his heels in.
The horse sprang forward —
not toward the camp,
but straight into the east.
Henry took two shifts that day —
one in the morning, and one just after noon.
No one had asked him to.
But it kept his hands moving.
Gave his body something to carry,
even if his thoughts stayed somewhere else entirely.
When he wasn’t on watch, he fixed gear.
Replaced a few buckles, mended a torn strap,
smoothed the edge of a dulled blade.
Tasks he could do blindfolded.
Tasks that did nothing.
Only postponed.
Now the shadows had grown long.
The air was thicker, slow with dusk.
Henry sat at the edge of the shelter, his hands resting on his knees.
He wasn’t counting the minutes —
but every glance down the path Hans had taken
felt like another one slipping through his grip.
He rose.
Walked a few paces.
Stopped.
Turned again.
Just trees.
Stillness.
No sound.
Sometimes he’d go a few steps farther,
as if one more stone’s throw might reveal something new.
Then he’d return.
Not sitting anymore — just crouching by the entrance.
Back against one of the poles.
Staring into nothing.
He wrapped a leather strap around his finger.
Unwrapped it.
Again.
Again.
Like a silent spell —
like the world might change if he got it just right.
But nothing changed.
The sun was low now.
Its last light brushed the edge of the forest in gold —
as if reluctant to vanish completely.
Henry sat still, right where he’d been.
He no longer paced.
No longer circled back.
He just stayed —
hands on his thighs, eyes fixed on the path.
Soft steps approached from behind. He knew them.
Godwin approached with a bowl of food.
“Have you eaten at all today?” he asked.
Henry shook his head, absently.
Didn’t look away from the road.
Godwin sat down beside him.
Set the bowl on the ground.
Didn’t say another word.
For a while, there was only silence.
Then Henry spoke, quietly, without moving.
“He should’ve been back by now.”
Godwin didn’t answer right away.
His eyes followed Henry’s —
not as firmly, but with the same direction.
“Maybe he’s close,” he said at last.
Henry shifted slightly, but still didn’t look at him.
Godwin rubbed his hands together —
as if for warmth, though the cold hadn’t come yet.
“When you’re alone, everything creeps up on you,” he said.
“But when the one you love is alone…
that’s different.
That hurts somewhere else.”
Henry didn’t reply.
His palms rested at his sides, fingers gently curved —
as if they were meant to be holding something.
But they weren’t.
Godwin stood again.
Gestured to the bowl. “If you want it — it’ll be there.”
He walked away slowly.
Henry didn’t move.
Later, somewhere in the camp, the wind stirred —
and then fell still again.
The fire was nearly out.
The footsteps this time were softer still.
Godwin appeared once more, without a question.
“You should at least lie down,” he said quietly.
Henry didn’t answer.
But after a moment, he lifted his head.
“I can’t.”
Godwin didn’t speak at first.
He stood a few paces away —
in shadow, without pressing.
“Not sleeping won’t help him.”
“I could’ve helped him by being with him!”
The words broke out of Henry with a force that startled even him.
Godwin didn’t flinch.
He simply stood his ground.
Henry looked down.
His hands clenched around Hans’s hood, resting in his lap.
When he spoke again, his voice cracked —
not from volume, but from all the holding back.
“I’m sorry…
I didn’t mean to snap.”
His voice was merely audible.
“I never should’ve let him go alone.”
Godwin stayed silent.
Just present.
“My only task is to protect him.
That’s all.
That’s the one thing that makes sense.
And I just… let him go.
Fuck.”
The last word barely made it out —
as if breath itself had given up halfway.
Godwin didn’t speak for a long while.
Then he moved closer and sat beside him.
“You’ve never stood aside when it came to him.
You’ve always carried more than you had to.”
He paused.
“Maybe now it’s his turn.
To carry a little of it for you.”
Henry turned toward him, slowly.
His eyes were glassy.
He swallowed. When he spoke, it was with a voice low and trembling:
“And what if…
he’s run into something too much for one man to bear?”
Godwin was quiet.
Then answered, calm and steady.
“If it comes to that… you won’t face the grief alone.”
The silence that followed was not empty.
It held.
“If you need me,” Godwin said softly, standing again,
“you know where I’ll be.
Any time.”
Henry didn’t reply.
Just kept looking into the dark.
Godwin left without a sound.
Henry remained seated.
He didn’t move.
He just felt the night thickening around him —
as if even the forest was holding its breath.
Time no longer had rhythm.
Only weight.
Sometime before dawn, exhaustion finally claimed him.
Henry drifted into sleep with Hans’s hood still caught between his fingers.
The sleep brought no peace —
only pushed the silence aside for a while.
Morning came slow.
No light yet, just a pale greyness clinging to the branches,
and the damp stillness of grass.
Henry stirred.
Not sharply — just a small motion,
like someone surfacing from a restless sleep.
Still halfway inside it.
“Hans?”
It was barely a whisper.
As if he spoke the name from a dream.
But he was alone in the shelter.
Only the damp air, the chill along his back,
and Hans’s hood still in his hand.
He rose. Slowly.
His back stiff, the weight from the night still unmoved.
He wrapped himself in his cloak and stepped outside.
The camp was quiet.
The day was merely beginning.
A few figures moved near the fire.
Some horses.
The damp scent of smoke and morning earth.
Henry looked around.
Walked a few paces past the rocks.
Then stopped and scanned the clearing.
He was searching for a lean figure.
Blue eyes.
That familiar, wicked smile.
Nothing.
He closed his eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath.
He’d known Hans wasn’t there.
But now the knowing tightened inside him —
sharp and physical.
He stood still a while longer.
Then took a step.
And another.
He just walked.
No one called out to him.
But heads began to turn.
His steps carried him to the heart of the camp.
He stopped just shy of the fire,
where the first signs of morning stirrings were surfacing.
Zizka was there — leaning over a map,
with Dry Devil close by.
Henry waited until Zizka lifted his head.
“I’m going after him,” he said simply.
Zizka looked up.
Met his gaze.
“That’s not an option.
We can’t afford to lose you too.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed.
“You haven’t lost Capon,” he said,
quietly enough to chill the air.
Dry Devil straightened slightly,
but didn’t interfere.
Zizka frowned.
“We don’t know what’s happened.
He might’ve just… been delayed.”
“By a whole day,” Henry replied.
“No, Zizka.
He should’ve been back last night.”
Silence.
Then Zizka tried a different angle.
“This group needs you.
And if something did happen to Capon,
the smart move would be to relocate.
We can’t wait forever.”
Henry didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed fixed on Zizka.
“And if he does come back — and finds the camp deserted — what then?
You said yourself he might just be delayed.”
Zizka frowned.
“No. We can’t afford to wait.
If Capon’s not back by now — we move.
And I won’t let you ride into the same trap.”
Henry didn’t budge.
He just looked at him.
“Either we wait for him — or I go. Now.”
Zizka tensed.
“And what if you end up like him?
What then?
Do I wait for you too?”
Henry’s gaze stayed locked.
Unmoving.
Unshakable.
A beat passed.
Zizka exhaled through his nose,
closed his eyes briefly —
like a man who knows when he’s hit the wall.
“We wait until next morning,” he said at last.
“Then we move.
All of us.”
Henry gave a single nod.
Turned.
And walked away without another word.
The day passed slowly.
Not lazily —
but with a heaviness,
as if every hour had to drag itself forward through stone.
Henry didn’t stop.
He helped with gear.
Took a watch.
Carried water.
Repaired quivers.
By afternoon, he returned to their shelter
and began going through Hans’s things.
Hans hadn’t taken his heavier gear — just what he needed to move fast and quiet.
Henry reached for it.
He checked the belt, tightened the straps on the bracers,
wiped down the breastplate.
Straightened the cloak Hans had folded and left aside.
His fingers paused in the fabric —
not out of sentiment,
but because it mattered.
Everything had to be ready.
For when he returned.
Hans had to come back.
The sun had begun its slow descent.
The shadows stretched longer.
The air had a weight to it.
A restlessness stirred in Henry —
not the kind that demanded action,
but the kind that no longer knew how to stand still.
He pulled out his light armour.
Put it on halfway —
then took it off again, slowly, without a word.
Pebbles stood nearby.
She knew.
When he approached with the harness,
she raised her head and gave a soft huff.
He fitted the breast collar —
but then stopped.
His hand froze mid-motion.
He stood that way long enough for her to lower her head again
and begin to chew at the grass.
Henry neither stepped back —
nor forward.
From a distance, Godwin had been watching.
Now he walked over.
He stopped just off to the side.
“If you keep wrestling with yourself like this,
you really might break something,” he said gently.
Henry lifted his head,
but didn’t answer right away.
He ran his hand along Pebbles’ neck,
stalling with the gesture.
“I don’t know.
I tried to get ready.
And then I…
I don’t know.”
Godwin said nothing.
Just stood beside him — not too close, not too far.
“I can’t just sit here and wait,” Henry added, even quieter.
“Not if he needs help.
But I promised I’d stay.
That I’d wait until morning.”
A pause.
“And still…
I know I won’t make it.
Not until morning.
Not like this.”
Godwin angled toward him slightly.
Henry drew a long breath.
But when he spoke again, his voice cracked.
“It’s burning me up.
That I let him go alone.
That I’m not with him now.
And maybe… maybe he’s already—”
He couldn’t finish.
He raised his hand
and pressed the base of his palm to the bridge of his nose.
Stood like that.
Trembling slightly.
As if that one gesture held everything inside from breaking.
Godwin was quiet for a while.
Then he spoke, calm and low.
“If you end up going —
you’ll be going as someone
who kept his promise as long as he could.”
Henry looked at him.
Godwin rested a hand on his shoulder.
“As long as I’ve known you —
and I think I know you now, Henry —
I believe you’ll know what’s right.”
But before Godwin could draw his hand away,
a shout rang out.
Short. Uncertain — then another, clearer one.
Someone was running to the camp’s edge.
And through the trees —
two riders emerged.
Katherine in front.
Hans behind her.
Dust-covered and shadow-wrapped —
but steady.
Henry froze.
He didn’t breathe.
Then ran.
Not recklessly —
but as if every thread in his body needed to confirm it was true.
He slowed only at the very end.
Zizka was already helping Katherine dismount.
Hans remained in the saddle.
He looked down at Henry with a tired smile —
brief, almost apologetic.
He was filthy.
His face and armour spattered with dried blood.
Henry saw it in a flash —
and stepped in quicker.
“Could you— help me?”
Hans’s voice was hoarse, quiet.
“Otherwise I might just fall off this damn horse.”
Henry came to his side
and eased him down —
one arm around his waist, the other under his shoulder.
He guided him to the ground.
Said nothing —
but in his touch was everything:
relief, gratitude, love.
And a gentleness
that wouldn’t have cracked a single twig beneath their feet.
Hans leaned against his shoulder a moment.
Henry lowered his head, wiped his sleeve across his face.
Then looked to Zizka.
“I’ll take care of my lord.”
And he led Hans slowly toward their shelter.
On the way, he leaned in close.
“Are you hurt?”
Hans shook his head.
“No. The blood… it’s not mine.”
A pause.
“I’m just— so damn tired.”
The camp stirred.
Some tried to ask what had happened.
Others stepped back in silence.
Henry said nothing.
He held Hans firmly —
but with such care
that every step seemed to protect the moment from vanishing.
He brought him to their shelter,
helped him sit — slow, exact, wordless.
Then reached for the water skin
and offered it to him.
Hans took it with both hands.
Drank — first a small sip, then a longer one.
Water ran down his chin,
but he didn’t seem to notice.
Henry knelt beside him.
His eyes didn’t leave Hans’s face —
not out of expectation,
but the deep need to see
that the other was still breathing.
Still here.
Hans lowered the water skin,
rested his forearms on his knees,
and sat there a moment — head slightly bowed.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
As if saying it to himself more than anyone else.
Henry reached out and touched his cheek.
It was dirty, sticky with dried blood and dust.
“I was so afraid for you,” he whispered.
His voice was low, taut — but not broken.
“Never… like this.”
Hans dropped his gaze.
For a moment he just stared at his hands —
as if realizing he still had them.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“I didn’t mean to worry you. I just…”
The words fell away.
Henry didn’t wait for them to return.
He shifted closer and held him.
A quiet, careful movement.
His forehead against Hans’s temple.
Both hands across his back.
“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he whispered.
Hans didn’t answer right away.
Then softly — almost thoughtfully:
“Safe.”
And he stayed there.
Slowly, without a word,
he rested his head on Henry’s shoulder
and stared into nothing.
When their breathing finally evened out,
Henry rose and silently began to help Hans out of his armour.
Unbuckling one strap at a time.
Then the belt. Another buckle. Another piece.
Hans didn’t speak.
Just watched the ground.
Occasionally, his gaze lifted to Henry — fleeting, quiet.
When the last pauldron came off, Henry reached for the gambeson underneath — damp, stiff with sweat and blood. Hans didn’t protest. He let it slide from his shoulders, heavy with the day.
Only then did Henry see it all.
The blood hadn’t just been on his face.
It streaked his neck, shoulder, forearm — the whole side of his torso.
He’d gone through it. All the way.
Henry fetched a clean cloth,
wet it, wrung it out.
He wiped Hans’s face first.
Then his shoulders.
Gently. With care. Without a word.
And finally he asked, softly:
“What happened there, Hans?”
Hans sat still, head bowed.
Didn’t answer right away.
He spoke at last, barely above a whisper. “There was no other way…”
A pause.
“But, Henry— one of those soldiers…”
He looked up.
His eyes held sorrow.
Shock.
And something unnamed.
“He was just a boy,” he whispered.
“I didn’t know. I killed him.”
Henry said nothing.
He just wrapped his arms around him.
A silent movement,
as if to cover what couldn’t be undone.
Hans stayed in his arms, his voice frayed, almost breathless.
“Henry… he hadn’t even started to grow facial hair…”
Henry held him tighter in that firm, steady embrace.
He didn’t speak — just breathed calmly, letting Hans rest against him.
As someone who couldn’t undo the pain, but would carry it with him.
“War is a terrible thing, Hans.
And in war… we do terrible things.”
He paused.
His hand remained still between Hans’s shoulder blades.
“But the fact that we grieve for it…
That we never grow numb to it…
That’s how we know we’re still good men.”
He gave Hans’s arm a gentle squeeze.
“And because you are a good man, Hans…
that guilt — it stays with you.”
Another pause.
His voice was low, careful, every word considered.
“But you don’t carry it alone.
And you never will.”
“No matter how heavy it gets… I’ll carry it with you.”
Hans didn’t move.
His voice came out in a whisper:
“I love you.”
Henry didn’t answer.
He just held him — and kept slowly, quietly running a hand down his back.
Again. And again.
For as long as it took.
When the silence had lasted long enough to turn into peace,
Henry slowly unfastened the last of the clasps.
The remaining straps and buckles — every trace of weight and battle — were eased away beneath his hands.
Hans didn’t resist.
He leaned back on his arms, eyes half-closed.
“Could I lie down?” he whispered.
“It’s been two days since I slept.”
Henry nodded.
He helped him ease onto the bedding, pulled the blanket over him, adjusted the cloak beneath his head.
Hans didn’t say another word.
He just breathed, slow and steady.
Within a minute, he was asleep.
Henry stayed by his side for a while.
Carefully brushed a hand through his hair.
Then got up and sat at the edge of the shelter.
Night had fallen deep.
Quiet. Cooler than the one before.
He’d sat in this same place the night before.
Alone.
Tonight, he was keeping watch over his lord.
And the man he loved.
Some time later, Henry too lay down in the shelter.
He turned on his side.
Facing him.
For a moment, he simply watched Hans sleep.
His calm breath.
His body finally allowed to rest.
And then, sleep took him as well.
Morning came quietly.
Henry was the first to wake.
For a while, he just lay there, listening to the stillness.
Next to him, Hans — peaceful, curled into the bedding, his face turned toward the folded cloak beneath his head.
His breathing was slow. Deep. Lost in the kind of sleep that had waited for him far too long.
Henry got up without a sound.
He pulled on his tunic, drank a little water, then looked back once more at Hans — and stepped outside.
The morning air was pale and cold — the kind that seeped into everything before the day properly began.
Camp was already stirring. A few scattered voices. Steel being drawn and checked.
By the firepit, Dry Devil was sharpening a dagger. Slow, methodical strokes.
He looked up as soon as he heard footsteps.
“Well, look who’s finally up,” he rasped.
Henry didn’t answer. Just gave a small nod.
Devil glanced up again, squinting at him.
“What about Capon? Still dead to the world?”
Henry gave a quiet answer.
“He’s still asleep.”
Devil gave a short laugh.
“No surprise. After what he pulled.”
Another swipe of the whetstone.
“Didn’t think Capon had that in him. Sharp, fast… deadly.”
Henry looked up at that.
“What do you mean?”
Devil raised his eyebrows.
“You don’t know?”
Henry shook his head, slowly.
“What should I know?”
Devil straightened a little, wiping the blade on his knee.
“The whole bloody story,” Devil said. “How Capon went in alone and took out every last one of them. That crew at the homestead where they held Katherine. She already told us everything.”
He leaned back a little, as if picturing it again.
“Slipped in like a ghost. Shot the first one clean through the throat before the others knew what was happening. Didn’t stop. Blade next. One by one. No shouting. No noise. Just— done.”
He tilted his head.
Henry didn’t move.
He didn’t answer right away.
But something in his face changed.
He could see it — the courtyard, the dark, the blood.
Hans — alone, deadly, precise.
And he hadn’t said a word.
But now, Henry understood why.
Hans was spent.
And this wasn’t a tale for the fire.
Henry gave a short nod.
“Thanks for telling me.”
Dry Devil glanced past Henry’s shoulder, squinting toward the edge of the camp.
Then, half-calling into the open air:
“Well fuck me, if it ain’t death in noble boots!”
Henry turned.
Hans was just coming down the path from their shelter.
His gait was steady but slow, his shoulders still a little stiff from sleep.
His hair was tousled, eyes blinking in the morning light — but he walked upright.
And as soon as the others spotted him, voices rose.
Not loud — not raucous.
Just laughter, greetings, a few claps on the back.
“Was that you, Capon?”
“Nicely done, sir!”
“This one’s going in the songs!”
Hans faltered for half a step.
His eyes darted across the faces — confused for a moment, then wary.
He didn’t know what to do with it.
Didn’t know where to put his hands.
“I… I just—”
His voice caught.
Henry smiled at him.
Warm. Calm. Steady.
“Good morning, my lord,” he said gently.
“Come join us.”
Hans made his way toward them.
Someone slapped his back. Another gave a nod of real respect.
And then — as if drawn from the shadows — Zizka stepped forward.
He halted in front of Hans.
Looked him straight in the eye.
“Sir Capon,” he said, voice like flint.
“You acted in direct defiance of what we agreed.”
Henry started to speak — but Zizka raised a hand.
Didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on Hans.
“That took some nerve. And it was the right call, Sir Capon.”
He smiled.
Openly.
And clapped Hans on the shoulder.
Hans stood there, blinking.
Something moved in his face — something like surprise, and perhaps… something else.
Something close to awe. But it was gone almost instantly.
“I didn’t want to risk us getting to Katherine too late,” he said quietly.
“And I’m glad you came when you did.”
It was Katherine’s voice.
She had just stepped forward, having come from the tents.
Her hair was tied back, a pitcher in her hand.
Her voice was calm — but something in her eyes hadn’t left the night behind.
“Maybe it was madness,” she said.
“But if it weren’t for Hans, God knows what they’d have done to me.”
Hans turned toward her.
Nodded once.
“I’m just glad you’re safe.”
Zizka looked around the group.
Katherine. Hans. Henry. Then he straightened a little, voice sharpening with purpose.
“Well then.
Since we’re all here — Capon, Katherine — I suppose it’s time we talked about what we know…
And what we’re going to do.”
Zizka turned slightly, eyes narrowing.
“Do we know who’s behind this?”
Hans gave a slow nod.
“Bergow.”
A pause.
“The men — they wore his colours. That blasted flying fish. Every single one I—”
He stopped himself.
Katherine stepped up beside him, her voice unwavering:
“They’re Bergow’s, yes.
I served at his castle long enough to recognise those rags, even in the dark.”
Zizka nodded.
“And what kind of men were they? Locals? Mercenaries?”
She shook her head.
“More like a small patrol. Not commanders.
They were settled in — like they were waiting for someone.”
Silence.
Then she drew in a slow breath.
“And more importantly — it wasn’t about me.”
She looked around.
“They wanted something else.”
Zizka lifted his gaze.
“Why do you think that?”
“It’s not what I think.
It’s what one of them said.”
Her voice changed — lower now. Flat.
“When he tried to… touch me… he said something about what my Zizka would say. And then added something about… that bastard from Kobyla.”
A hush fell over them.
Then she added, more quietly:
“They’re after you, Zizka.
And probably Henry, too.”
Silence.
Even the fire seemed to crackle more softly.
Dry Devil spat into the dust.
“So not a real abduction.
Just bait.
And the only question is—”
He looked up.
“Do we want to be the fish, or the hook?”
Zizka looked at him, but didn’t argue.
He simply nodded.
"If they know about us — and they probably know where we are too —
and they’re still trying to draw us out,
then Devil’s Den is still the safest place we’ve got."
A short pause.
"But we’ll have to double our guard."
He looked around again.
His voice was calm, but taut as a bowstring.
"And more than that — we’ll have to take the initiative.
There’s no point waiting around to see what they’ll try next."
There was a moment of stillness.
Then Henry spoke — quiet, but clear.
"And I don’t think they’ll ignore what Hans did in Hlizov.
They’ll put two and two together.
And they’ll know it was us."
A few heads turned.
Someone nodded silently.
Hans looked to Zizka.
His voice was soft, but unflinching.
“We can’t take on Bergow by ourselves.”
We don’t have the Finger of God like we did in Maleshov."
Silence.
That truth lingered in the air — heavy, undeniable.
Zizka said nothing for a while.
Then, at last, he gave a slow nod.
"All right.
We’ll return to Devil’s Den.
We fortify it, as much as we can.
Set traps. Guards. Everything."
He looked out over the others.
"And then we try to reach out to our allies."
As he spoke, his eyes found Hans again.
Hans simply nodded.
No more words.
A little later, everyone made their way back to Devil’s Den.
The inn stirred back to life — cautiously, not quite like before, but with a breath of return.
That afternoon brought more than repairs and guard duty.
In front of the inn, something like a celebration took shape — the rescue of Katherine, the return.
And most of the attention settled on Hans.
It was strange to witness.
People smiled, nodded to him, someone brought him a cup of wine.
Hans stayed modest, answered sparingly —
but there was a different light in his eyes.
As if, just this once, he allowed himself to feel it.
The recognition.
Henry stood a little to the side.
Watching him with a calm, quiet smile.
No envy. Just… pride.
At that moment, Katherine appeared beside him — unannounced, barely noticed at first.
She followed his gaze for a moment.
Then gave a faint smile.
"I think I’m starting to see what you see."
And right after, she vanished again among the others.
Henry stood still for a second,
as if turning the words over in his mind.
But then he simply shook his head —
and returned his eyes to Hans.
The sun had already dipped below the hills.
Torches were lit, flames flickered in the hearth, and tankards and goblets filled and emptied in turn.
Hans was just now laughing at something Dry Devil had said.
Then his gaze drifted sideways—
and found Henry.
And stayed there.
Henry met his eyes and smiled.
Gently. Steadily.
He didn’t need to say a word.
Hans turned to those around him.
"Tomorrow is another day," he said lightly.
"And I could use a bit of time to put myself back together."
No one tried to keep him.
Someone clapped him on the shoulder, another wished him a quiet night.
He made for the staircase in the back.
Henry followed him—
without a word,
with the calm of someone who knows exactly where they’re meant to be.
Their room was dark — only a narrow strip of moonlight slipped in through the window shutters.
As soon as the door closed behind them, Hans turned.
He stepped toward Henry without a word and pulled him close.
No hesitation. No restraint.
He kissed him — fierce and hungry,
like something he’d been holding back for far too long.
Henry didn’t hold back either.
He returned the kiss with all the weight of the days they’d just endured — and survived.
Between gasps, Hans murmured against his lips,
“Those two days…
without you…
they were hell.”
Henry smiled faintly in his arms.
“You’ve no idea how long those two days were for me.”
Hans stilled.
His grip eased, but his gaze stayed close.
“I’m sorry, love…
for leaving you in the dark.”
Henry shook his head gently.
His voice was soft.
“It’s all right now. Everything’s all right.”
He kissed him again — slower this time.
Not with urgency, but with quiet gratitude.
That they were here.
Both of them.
They stood in silence for a moment longer.
In touch, in breath.
Then Henry pulled back — only enough to meet his eyes —
and guided him down, gently, onto the bed.
Their eyes still holding.
Night had fallen over Devil’s Den.
They lay together beneath a blanket, in warmth and quiet.
Henry felt exhaustion begin to settle in —
perhaps from their lovemaking,
but more likely from everything the past days had brought.
Just before sleep claimed him, he felt Hans’s arm slide gently under his head —
and the other draw him closer.
I went to sleep crying, heavy in my body, carrying pain I could feel all the way in my womb. Opening this message this morning felt like being held. A reminder I needed to receive, from my mother.
Hija amada, que la Luz que te creó te acompañe siempre y guíe tu corazón aun cuando el camino se oscurezca.
Que la Presencia divina te sostenga, recordándote que eres propósito, que eres protegida, que fuiste soñada en el cielo antes de llegar a mis brazos.
Que ninguna sombra toque tu espíritu, porque tu luz es más fuerte que cualquier temor.
Que los ángeles caminen contigo, abriendo sendas de paz y cerrando todo lo que no te hace bien.
Y recuerda, hija mía: nunca estás sola.
— Una oración que me envió mi madre.
(English translation)
Beloved daughter, may the Light that created you always walk beside you and guide your heart, even when the path grows dark.
May the Divine Presence hold you, reminding you that you are purpose, that you are protected, that you were dreamed of in heaven before arriving in my arms.
May no shadow touch your spirit, for your light is stronger than any fear.
May the angels walk with you, opening paths of peace and closing everything that does not serve your good.
I put you on notice.
You never got the memo.
No headline.
No big gesture.
Just me, watching.
Quietly. Constantly. Silently.
And hoping.
I walk past you all the time.
But you never look.
Why would you?
You're already the center of someone else’s attention.
Already orbiting someone else’s pull.
I’m just the gravity you never notice.
It’s not your fault.
You’ve always had eyes on you.
Brighter men.
Faster men.
Louder men.
Men who didn’t hesitate.
Men who arrived early.
Men who didn’t need to wait for the moment
because they made the moment.
And me?
I came in late to the game.
No script. No plan.
Just the kind of heart that stays full even when no one drinks from it.
Still,
I put you on notice.
In my mind.
I’d see you and wonder.
I’d imagine the unspoken version of us.
The kind that never even made it to a “hello.”
The kind that lingers only in memory —
even though we never began.
I’d imagine being the one
you undress for real.
Not for show.
Not for performance.
But because you finally feel safe.
I’d imagine being the one
you choose after the chaos.
After the bad boys.
After the heartbreak.
After the exhaustion of being wanted, but never understood.
But I know.
I know how this story goes.
And I don’t blame you.
I’m the man you didn’t see.
The one holding the door.
The one you thanked without eye contact.
The one you passed on the sidewalk
while texting someone who barely deserves your softness.
I saw your light.
And I wanted to protect it.
Not claim it.
Not burn in it.
Just guard it quietly
while you looked the other way.
You see—
I would’ve loved you without the makeup.
Without the heels.
Without the camera angles.
Without the performance.
I would’ve loved you
when your eyes were swollen from crying.
When your hands shook from being strong too long.
When you forgot you were beautiful.
I would’ve loved you without all of that.
Until you were old and grey.
Until your voice cracked.
Until you forgot how to walk.
