The room was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt deliberate, as if holding its breath after what had just happened.
Louis stood behind Charles, the brush still in his hand. He hadn't realized he'd stopped moving it. Charles had drifted off so easily—too easily—his head tilted slightly forward, damp hair falling over his forehead. His breathing had steadied, slow and unguarded, the kind of rhythm Louis hadn't heard from him in years.
Louis swallowed.
The scent of warm cocoa still lingered thickly in the air, wrapping around the room like a blanket. His pheromones. His mate. Every inhale made something in Louis tighten, then loosen, then ache.
Charles shifted slightly, mumbling something under his breath. Louis leaned forward without thinking, brushing the hair from Charles' eyes. His fingers grazed warm skin; Charles' lashes fluttered, but he didn't wake.
He looked peaceful.
He rarely ever looked peaceful.
