Damien stood in front of the wardrobe, towel still low on his hips, the last rivulet of water trailing down the small of his back before vanishing into the cotton. His body no longer sagged under its own weight. No softness, no compromise. Every muscle was a taught line of effort, every inch of skin a testament.
Behind him—the door clicked shut.
He didn't have to turn.
He knew it was her.
A soft breath, a shift of weight, and then—
"Master."
His head tilted, a quiet hum slipping from his throat. "Hm?"
She didn't answer right away.
Just footsteps. Slow. Controlled. Closing the space behind him.
Then the subtle creak of the wardrobe door as it opened beside him—her hand brushing past his, unbothered by the heat that still clung to his skin.
"I will choose your outfit for today," Elysia said calmly, though her voice had a softness that hadn't been there before. "The patriarch will expect nothing less than your best."
A pause.
Then—
