Rosalind blinked, the soft glow of the bedside lamp making her squint. It was no longer the dim hue of early morning—night had fallen. The room remained still, the amber light casting gentle shadows across the carved walls. The blanket lay across her waist, and though the chill had faded, a dull exhaustion lingered—as if her body had just returned from a long, heavy dream.
She shifted slightly, and immediately, a large hand steadied her shoulder—gentle, firm.
"Careful."
That low, familiar voice met her ears, and she turned to find Dorian sitting beside her.
His gaze never left her, the tension in his eyes replaced by quiet tenderness.
Rosalind looked up at him. A flicker of surprise crossed her face before melting into a weary smile.
"Thank you..." she whispered.
Dorian didn't reply—only offered a small smile, then reached for a damp cloth resting on a silver tray nearby. Elise's thoughtfulness lingered in every detail.
