Arrow was dying.
Caelan had known for a while now. He'd told himself that the tiger-fox was just tired, that the grey around his muzzle was nothing more than age catching up in small, inconsequential ways. He'd ignored the slight limp, the way Arrow no longer raced ahead, the way he took longer breaks, the way his sharp golden eyes had clouded, one completely blind now.
He'd been walking beside him more often instead of riding. Not because Arrow couldn't bear his weight anymore—but because he didn't want to acknowledge the truth.
They were almost home.
Aeryndale lay just beyond the next valley. Just over the mountain pass. If they could make it there, everything would be fine. They would walk through the castle gates together, just like they used to.
But when Arrow collapsed, he didn't get back up.
Caelan dropped to his knees beside the beast, hands sinking into the thick, rain-dampened fur. "You're just hungry, aren't you?" His voice was light, coaxing, as if saying it aloud would make it true. "I'll get you fifty peahens when we reach the next village. Just a little farther, old friend."
Arrow chuffed weakly, his breath rattling. He blinked his remaining good eye at Caelan, slow and heavy, as though even that was an effort.
The prince's throat closed. "Come on," he urged. "You can't give up now. We're almost home."
The drizzle that had been following them all evening grew heavier. Rain pattered against the dirt road, soaking into the mud, into Caelan's clothes. Lightning split the sky, illuminating Arrow's still body, his ribs rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
Caelan clutched the beast's mane, pressing his forehead against the damp fur. His fingers curled, holding on tight. "Please," he whispered. "You're all I have left."
He felt the strength leaving Arrow's body.
He felt himself breaking all over again.
A sound echoed in the distance—the rhythmic stomp of something approaching. A carriage drawn by a pair of draugwyns, their heavy hooves kicking up mud as they moved down the road. Someone was coming.
But Caelan didn't care.
He held on, his body shaking with the force of his grief. His vision blurred, his breath came ragged.
"Why must the heavens cry when tragedy befalls me?" he whispered.
Thunder answered. A deafening crack tore through the sky.
And then—
Callum woke up.
He sat upright in bed, chest heaving, his body hot and clammy despite the cool air in his apartment. His hands clenched the sheets, his breath came fast and shallow. He reached up, brushing his fingers across his cheeks. They were wet.
Rain pattered against the windows, mirroring the storm from his dream.
He exhaled shakily, trying to steady himself. It was just a dream. But no—it never was. No matter how often he had them, he still hadn't gotten used to the memories.
A sharp knock at the door made him flinch.
He turned, blinking blearily at the clock on the wall. 3:07 AM.
Who the hell—?
Another knock, hesitant but urgent.
Callum swung his legs over the bed, running a hand through his damp hair as he made his way to the door. His studio apartment was secure—he owned the entire building, and the only way up was through a locked entrance.
So who—?
He peered through the peephole.
His stomach dropped.
Micah.
Soaking wet. Shaking. His hair clinging to his face, his clothes drenched and sticking to his skin. He looked small. Exhausted. Like a stray cat caught in a storm.
Callum didn't hesitate. He unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"Micah!?"
Micah stammered, his teeth chattering. "T-The guy at the door… he let me in. Said he— he recognized me from last time I was here with you…"
Callum didn't care. He grabbed Micah's wrist and pulled him inside. "You're freezing. You're shaking. What time— never mind, screw that. Let's get you dry."
Micah swallowed, his gaze darting to the floor. "It's— I think it's around three," he mumbled. "I came from the bus station. I didn't want to go home. I didn't— I didn't know where else to go."
Callum bent down, grabbing the laces of Micah's shoes. They were caked in mud, frayed at the edges, damp from the rain. His socks were soaked, his ankles red with the chill.
Callum gently removed them, careful not to press too hard. The skin of Micah's feet was raw. Sore.
His stomach twisted.
"Micah…" He swallowed hard. "Did you walk all the way here?"
The nearest bus station was miles away.
Micah wobbled slightly, his expression dazed. "I… I think I did. I don't know, I—"
Callum gritted his teeth. His heart ached.
"Let's get you warmed up," he murmured.
He led Micah through the apartment, past the guest bathroom—the one Micah had used the last time he was here—and straight into his personal bathroom.
It was bigger, warmer, with soft lighting and a deep bathtub.
Callum turned on the water, letting it heat up as he reached for a towel. He peeled off Micah's jacket first, then hesitated before grabbing the hem of his soaked shirt.
Micah blinked at him, silent. Then he lifted his arms.
Callum helped him out of the shirt, the fabric heavy with rain water. His soft skin was cold beneath, dotted with goosebumps, but Callum didn't let his gaze linger. He grabbed the towel and rubbed at Micah's shoulders, trying to bring warmth back into his body.
Callum took note of just how thinner Micah looked, he looked even skinnier than he was the last time Callum had seen him. His burn scars had turned from an angry pink to a glazed brown that stood sharply against the rest of his skin. Callum dabbed at them like they still hurt. He wished he could reverse time and stop that explosion from happening.
He wished it was him who'd been in that hospital bed, not Micah.
But he didn't voice the thought. The only sounds in the bathroom was that of their breathing and the tub filling.
Micah's breath hitched as the towel brushed across his belly button and his neck, but those were the only sounds he made as Callum towelled the wetness off his hair and torso.
When Micah was mostly dried waist up, Callum looked down at the other half of him. There was no way Micah would feel better if his pants didn't come off and Callum…
When he reached the waistband of Micah's jeans, he hesitated.
He couldn't do it.
And Micah noticed.
Callum cleared his throat, pressing the towel into Micah's hands instead. "Here. I'll be outside."
He turned to leave, but Micah caught his wrist.
"Why did you stop?"
Callum froze.
"Micah…"
Micah stepped closer. Just a fraction. But it was enough.
Enough to press Callum against the bathroom door.
Enough for their breaths to mingle, for the heat between their bodies to become tangible despite Micah's cold, rain-soaked skin.
Callum swallowed hard. His body tensed.
His mind betrayed him for a moment—wondering if this was it, if this was when Micah finally let go of his inhibitions, if this was when Callum would finally make him his again.
But this wasn't right.
Micah was vulnerable. It was late. Their emotions were all out of place. And… he could see it in Micah's eyes.
They were blazing. Not with heat, not with need, but with something else entirely. Something wild. Something unhinged. Something closer to raw desperation born out of frustration rather than love, or even lust.
Micah's fingers tightened around Callum's wrist, but this time, he didn't just hold him in place. He pulled him closer.
Their chests brushed, Micah's skin was still damp and cool from the rain, but all Callum felt was the heat sparking between them.
"Why did you stop?" Micah repeated, his voice quiet, intimate—dangerous.
Callum's pulse spiked. "Micah… we can't…"
Micah tilted his head, watching him through half-lidded eyes. Inviting. Expecting. He leaned in, just enough for Callum to feel his breath against his jaw.
"You've seen me naked before, haven't you?" Micah whispered. "You've seen him naked."
The question and it's attached sentence hung in the air between them, electric and heavy. Callum's pulse jumped. His body reacted instinctively, drawn into Micah's orbit, into the warmth of his voice, the shape of his lips— no.
This wasn't right.
Micah's grip on him was too tight, his pupils too dark, blown wide like he was drowning in something neither of them could name.
"I thought you'd be happier about this," he said, trailing his fingers down Callum's chest. "If you're worried about Damian, you don't have to be. I think he gets off on the thought of me being with you."
That wasn't the problem here!
Callum was too stunned to speak. Micah's fingers were trailing lower… and lower…
His fingers ghosted over Callum's waistband, tracing the edge of his belt like he was daring him to stop it. Heat coiled low in Callum's stomach, his restraint fraying at the edges.
Callum caught his hand before they could dive lower into forbidden territory. "Micah, we can't do this," he managed to squeeze out, his voice shaky.
Every nerve ending in him was on fire, his body responding to Micah's touch. His face was too warm, his heart was beating too fast.
Micah looked slightly disappointed at the fact that Callum had stopped him. Only slightly. If anything, he looked more sad. Distant.
His eyes burned into Callum's but Callum felt like they were looking through him. "Why not?" He asked. "Don't you want me?"
Callum's breath hitched. His hand moved without thinking, cupping Micah's face, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone, over the scars at that side of his face. Micah leaned into the touch and Callum reached the end of his rope.
"I do."