A soft knock at the outer door broke the quiet. Dax crossed the suite in three long strides, accepted the leather case from the shadow who offered it without a word, and dismissed them with a flick of his fingers. The door clicked shut again, sealing the room back into silence.
He returned to the bed and crouched at the foot. Chris lay as he'd left him, one arm flung loosely across his stomach, lashes still against his cheeks. The faint warmth of his pheromones drifted out from under the blankets, clean and subtle after the shower but enough to snag at something deep inside Dax. His fingers tightened once on the case before he forced them steady.
Gently, he lifted the hem of the sleep trousers to bare Chris's heels. The blisters were raw crescents, angry against the pale skin. He hissed softly but kept his touch light. Antiseptic, balm, gauze: his hands moved with surprising care for a man used to war. Chris stirred once, a sleepy murmur, then settled again.
