Nyxion lay on the bed, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
Her dark skin glistened faintly with sweat, the deep crimson flush on her cheeks looking almost feverish against her usual cool composure. Each inhale seemed to cost her visible effort—her full chest rising and falling faster than normal, the thin silk sheet clinging to the heavy curves of her breasts, outlining every labored breath.
Aiden sat beside the bed on a wooden chair that had been dragged close, his posture tense despite how gently he held her hand.
His thumb traced slow, careful circles against her palm—grounding, steady—like he was afraid that if he stopped, she might slip further away.
"I'm here," he murmured softly. "You're not alone."
Nyxion turned her head just enough to look at him, crimson eyes hazy but focused. "I know, Heart Lord," she whispered, voice weak but sincere. "I can feel you."
