Chris woke to the sound of the shower running. For a moment, he lay still, caught between the warmth of the sheets and the faint chill of the morning air that seeped through the half-open terrace doors. The other side of the bed was empty but still faintly warm, as if Dax had only just gotten up.
The night before had ended quietly. No raised voices, no sharp words. Just the two of them on the terrace, a long talk that stripped everything down to honesty and one kiss that neither of them had planned or tried to explain after.
He shifted, sitting up slowly, the blanket sliding around his waist. His eyes found the collar almost immediately, resting on the low table by the window, silver catching the light, smooth and deceptively simple for something that had caused so much trouble.
It was beautiful, in that unnervingly excessive but quiet way Dax seemed to favor. Chris had hated it when he thought it was a leash. Now, he understood. It was a shield, one he’d thrown back at the man who had made it, only to find out it had been protecting him all along.
He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the gleam of it. "You’re an idiot," he murmured under his breath. He didn’t know if it was for him or Dax, maybe for both.
A calm voice came from near the wardrobe. "If you’re referring to His Majesty, Your Grace, you’ll have to be more specific. There are several categories."
Chris turned, startled. "Killian... What the... You were there the whole time?"
The alpha stood in his immaculately pressed uniform and adjusted the cuffs of Dax’s black jacket. The pale morning light caught in his hair, in the sharp line of his jaw and the purple shawl that symbolized his rank as Chief Steward. Always perfectly composed, like someone carved out of discipline and dry patience.
"I’ve been here since six," Killian said evenly. "Unlike His Majesty, I prefer to keep a predictable routine."
Chris blinked, still half tangled in the sheets. "And you just... stood there?"
Killian looked up from the jacket, eyes faintly amused but professional as ever. "I was preparing his schedule. And making sure you were breathing."
Chris gave a small, incredulous laugh. "I wasn’t dying."
"You weren’t," Killian agreed. "But the palace was convinced otherwise for a week. You’ve done more for their nerves by staying alive than you realize."
Chris frowned. "What’s that supposed to mean?"
Killian hesitated, just a second, before answering in that steady, clipped tone that always sounded like it came from someone who’d seen too much. "Before you came to Saha, His Majesty didn’t... restrain himself well. When he was angry, the walls knew it. When he was silent, everyone was terrified of what would follow."
Chris’s lips parted, the faintest flicker of disbelief in his eyes. "And now?"
"Now," Killian said, "he’s quieter. Still impossible, but quieter." He smoothed the jacket one last time, the smallest trace of a smile ghosting over his expression. "When you argued last week, though, I considered calling for an evacuation."
Chris groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "You’re exaggerating."
"I don’t exaggerate," Killian said dryly. "The chandeliers trembled."
Despite himself, Chris laughed, a low, reluctant sound that drew some of the tension out of the air. "Right. So I’m good for structural testing, if nothing else."
Killian’s eyes glinted. "An engineer’s touch, perhaps."
"Don’t start," Chris muttered, but his mouth curved faintly despite it.
The sound of the shower stopped. Steam drifted through the open bathroom door a moment later, curling lazily into the morning light.
Dax stepped out, drying his hair with one hand, the towel hanging carelessly around his shoulders and nothing else.
Chris’s thoughts, until that exact second, had been entirely reasonable. Breakfast. Lessons. Survival as the person that would be by Dax. His husband. And then...all reason left the building.
There were moments when the human brain shouldn’t be allowed to process data. This, Chris decided, was one of them. This was the moment when all his memories of his meltdown over the shirt... seemed innocent compared to this.
He’d built scale models of bridges, run simulations on load distribution, calculated shear stress and tensile limits... and his mind, unhelpfully, applied every single one of those principles to his future husband.
His engineering instincts whispered, ’That can’t possibly fit into standard design tolerances.’ That meaning... his... his design.
Another part of his brain countered, ’Don’t calculate. Don’t calculate. Stop calculating.’
He failed.
"Saints above," he muttered, quietly enough that only his dignity heard it.
Killian, unfortunately, had excellent hearing. "Did you say something, Your Grace?"
"Nope," Chris said quickly, eyes fixed very pointedly on the ceiling. "Nothing. Just... appreciating modern architecture."
Killian’s expression didn’t change, though there was the faintest, faintest twitch near the corner of his mouth. "Indeed," he said smoothly. "Though, if I may, the structure you’re currently observing is hardly modern."
Chris nearly choked. "Killian."
"Yes, Your Grace?" He responded, unimpressed by the sight.
"Leave."
The alpha blinked once, very slowly, as if debating whether to pretend he hadn’t heard the order. Then, with all the solemnity of a man walking into battle, he inclined his head. "As you wish."
He crossed the room slowly, his polished leather shoes barely making a sound against the marble. At the door, he paused just long enough to add, in his impeccable, dry tone, "I’ll have breakfast sent up in half an hour. And, for the record... His Majesty requested no interruptions. You may... discuss architectural tolerances at your leisure."
"Killian..."
Click. As the door closed, Killian and his purple mantle vanished, leaving only silence behind him like dust in the morning light.
And Dax, of course, was smiling.
He stood there, all pale golden skin and smug serenity, towel draped over his shoulders, utterly at ease in his own impossible frame. His eyes, sharp and amused, traced over Chris with an intensity that made breathing optional.
"Appreciating modern architecture?" he asked, voice low and lazy.
Chris groaned, dragging the blanket higher, as if that could shield him from reality itself. "You heard that."
"I did," Dax said, stepping closer, towel in one hand, hair still dripping faintly onto his collarbones. "I’d say I’m flattered, but I think you were more horrified than impressed."
"Horrified is a strong word," Chris said carefully. "Let’s go with... alarmed."
Dax laughed, the sound deep and unbothered, like someone who knew exactly how much chaos he caused. "You’re thinking again," he said, closing the last of the distance between them. "I can tell when you’re thinking."
"That’s generally considered a survival skill."
"Not when it’s about me."
Chris gave him a look somewhere between disbelief and mild panic. "You do realize that every time I start to make peace with your existence, you do something like this?"
"Wake up?" Dax offered, perfectly serious.
"Walk out naked like a damned deity carved out of hubris."
Dax tilted his head, white hair falling across his forehead. "I like that phrasing. I might have it engraved somewhere." He chuckled under his breath, low, indulgent, and completely satisfied with himself, and continued walking until the shadows of his height fell over the bed.
Chris didn’t move. He was still half-buried in the sheets, clutching the blanket like it was the last line of defense between himself and disaster. His brain screamed ’don’t look up,’ but of course he did.