Chapter 98: Chapter 98: Routine (2)

Rafael made a small, defeated sound and accepted his rice like a man accepting exile.

And still, somewhere between the third cup of ginger tea and the sixth day of Gregoris refusing to leave until Rafael’s color returned, Rafael realized something that made his ribs feel too tight.

He was starting to look for him in rooms.

Not in the dramatic way of poems or propaganda. Not with desperate longing, not with foolish romantic hunger. But with the quiet, bodily instinct of someone who had begun to associate a presence with safety. With the way his shoulders eased the moment the security doors whispered open and Gregoris’s ID pinged on the manor’s system. With the way he listened for the weight of Gregoris’s steps before he even saw him.

Gregoris didn’t talk about it.

He didn’t talk much at all unless it mattered, but Rafael began noticing the small ways Gregoris rearranged his life without announcing it.

The reports that used to live in his hands from sunrise to midnight were now handled in sharp bursts: scan, execute, delegate. The Shadows’ schedules updated around his location. A field commander took over two briefings in a row, unheard of, unless Gregoris had demanded it.

Rafael didn’t ask.

Because if he asked, it would become something they had to name, and naming it would make it fragile.

On the seventh day, Rafael found Gregoris in the smaller study off the bedroom, one of the manor’s private rooms shielded against surveillance by thick ether-dampening panels in the walls. Gregoris was at the desk, coat off, sleeves rolled, hair a fraction mussed in a way that suggested he’d been moving between rooms while working. His tablet was propped beside a holographic display: simple maps, logistics routes, nothing dramatic. The Empire, for once, was boring.

There was a sleek glass bowl near the inkless stylus dock.

Rafael paused in the doorway.

Gregoris looked up immediately, like his senses were tuned to Rafael’s existence more than to any alarm.

“You should be in bed,” Gregoris said.

“I am walking,” Rafael replied, offended. “In my own home.”

Gregoris’s gaze flicked over him in swift assessment; he was pale but upright, robe tied, and eyes sharper than yesterday. Then his expression softened by a degree so subtle most people would miss it.

“Come,” he said, and pushed his chair back slightly.

Rafael approached with cautious dignity, as if moving too quickly might summon nausea out of spite. When he reached the desk, he saw what was in the bowl.

Candied ginger. Individually wrapped, like something meant for a hospital, except the bowl was absurdly elegant, because even practicality in this house wore good taste.

Rafael stared at it like it was a confession.

“You did not,” he said.

Gregoris kept his eyes on him. “Marin said it can help.”

Rafael’s mouth opened, closed, then opened again with genuine outrage. “You listened to Marin.”

“I listen to useful information.”

“Marin is a menace.”

“Marin is correct.”

Rafael looked between the ginger and Gregoris’s face, and the ridiculous tenderness of it hit him like a blow. Quietly placed in a bowl as if it was nothing. As if Rafael’s discomfort mattered enough to become a habit.

“You’re rearranging your entire life around my nausea,” Rafael said, his voice too careful.

Gregoris didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

It was the calm certainty of a man who didn’t realize other people found that terrifying.

Rafael’s throat tightened with something that felt like gratitude and something even worse… trust.

He picked up a piece of ginger, held it between his fingers like a peace offering, and then, because he had become reckless in the safety of routine, he said softly, “The palace feels… far lately.”

Gregoris watched him. “Because I am not there.”

Rafael’s breath caught, annoyed at his own honesty. “Do not make it sound like I miss you.”

Gregoris reached out, caught Rafael’s wrist gently, and turned his hand so the ginger was pressed into Rafael’s palm like a reminder.

“You can call it what you want,” he said. “But you will eat. You will rest. And I will be here.”

Rafael stared at him, the Shadow commander who had survived wars and council rooms and assassination attempts and yet had learned the exact angle to place a pillow so Rafael’s stomach didn’t twist.

“You know, for someone that wanted only to play with me, you are unbearably gentle.”

Gregoris froze for half a second.

Then he laughed. It was low, surprised, and warm in a way that almost didn’t belong to a man who had made a career out of controlled violence and silence. The sound slipped out of him before discipline could catch it, roughened by genuine amusement.

“Play,” he repeated, tasting the word.

Rafael’s brows knit faintly. “You did. Don’t look at me like that. You enjoyed provoking me. Still do, I suspect.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” Gregoris admitted without hesitation. His silver eyes held a glint now, sharp and familiar. “You give excellent reactions. Precise. Expressive. You are very honest with your face when you’re irritated.”

Rafael huffed. “Traitorous features.”

“Useful features,” Gregoris corrected. Then, because he was who he was, he added calmly, “But I am honorable. I will not attack a sick opponent.”

Rafael stared at him. “You’re comparing my nausea to a battlefield disadvantage.”

“I am comparing your current condition to a temporary reduction in combat readiness,” Gregoris said gravely. “It would be unsporting to exploit it.”

Rafael blinked once.

Then, despite himself, a small, helpless laugh escaped him. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” Gregoris replied, reaching up to brush his thumb lightly over Rafael’s wrist where he still held it, “are off-limits for teasing until you can look at food without contemplating its murder.”

Rafael tilted his head, studying him. “That’s your mercy?”

“That is my restraint.”

“And when I recover?”

Gregoris’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous and entirely controlled. “Then I will resume.”

Rafael’s pulse kicked, traitorously quick, and he hated that his body reacted faster than his pride. “I look forward to seeing you try.”

Gregoris’s laugh this time was quieter, closer, vibrating just beneath the skin. “You always do.”

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