Chris's fingers twitched against Dax's chest. "I—" he tried again, but the confession stuck in his throat. His body knew the routine of reaching for the bottle; it didn't know what to do with a king pressed close enough for his scent to drown everything else.
He knew it was wrong, and for all it was worth, Dax was strangely calm about it. But that calm felt like glass under pressure. Chris had the unnerving sense he was only a hair away from feeling the king's real temperament break across him.
Dax drew a slow breath against his throat, and the warmth of it made goose bumps rise on Chris's skin. "You don't have to tell me," he murmured, voice still low and even. "I can smell it." One large hand slid up to the back of Chris's neck, just resting there, a quiet reminder of how easily he could feel every tremor. "No more hiding," he said softly. "If it's too much, you say it. To me. Not to a pill bottle."
