Mending Bruises, But Not the Heart

His gaze flickered to Alaric, softer now, like the question had pulled something beneath the surface—something he didn’t often allow to show. His lips parted as if to say something, but the words seemed to catch, lingering at the edge of his thoughts.

The question—hung between them like smoke, and Deyran didn’t flinch from it. He held it in his gaze, let it settle behind his ribs like a familiar weight.

His fingers, still curled around his drink, tightened—barely—but enough. The flicker of something darker passed over his face. Not pain, not quite. But close. And gone in an instant.

Hm, he nods.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Deyran leaned back in his chair, mirroring Alaric’s earlier motion, but there was no ease in the way he moved. His body was taut, coiled like a spring, and his gaze never wavered. One brow arched, lips twitching, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. Just a soft, dangerous pull at the corner of his mouth.

When Alaric’s glass rose and the toast was made, Deyran lifted his own in silence. His eyes never left Alaric’s as he held the glass to his lips, the space between them crackling with something that burned even hotter than before.

And then—finally—he drank.

But he didn’t say a damn thing.

What could he say? Every second that stretched on, it was clear—he burned for him.