CHAPTER 68: COMFORT OF YOU

Levan did not stay long after that. He had only come to check on her, and now that he was certain she was fine, he thought he could finally move on to the next list of the day.

He stood a moment longer in the doorway, the silhouette of the world he had to step back into framed around him. The morning’s worries sat behind his ribs like stones, but for once he set them down in the shape of a promise he meant to keep.

He bent his head a little, finding it ridiculous how his wife had insisted on walking him to the door when it was only a few steps away. Ilaria’s expression was somewhere between bashful and stubborn.

There was that quiet sort of devotion in her eyes as she looked at him, the kind that could undo a man before he even realized it. And perhaps it already did. Because Levan was not sure if he wanted to leave anymore.

For once, the thought of turning his back on duty did not feel like betrayal, but a quiet, selfish mercy he had never allowed himself to crave.

He did not entertain it though.

"I’ll be gone until evening," he said, his tone even, though gentler than usual. "Marion will bring your meals here. You may go outside if you wish, but not alone. Have him call for your maids, okay?"

"Mm," she murmured, the sound soft and trusting, her gaze following him with quiet warmth. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, "Be careful out there."

The simplicity of it should not have stayed with him, and yet it did. That small, earnest wish she offered him like a charm against the world. It clung to him in ways heavier things could not, threading itself quietly between the weight of his duty and the sound of her voice.

He lingered a moment longer than he meant to, his gaze tracing the softness of her features and the way her hands folded neatly before her. It was absurd, how easily she could unravel him without trying. Or was it him who had let his guard down? Maybe. Anyway, it does not matter.

With a steady breath, he turned and left. Because if he stayed a heartbeat longer, he feared he might forget why he had to leave at all.

The door closed on his retreat and the chamber inhaled. Light shifted slower now; the sun leaned toward afternoon and the windows gathered gold along the sill. Ilaria watched the place where he had stood until the sound of his boots swallowed itself in the palace’s hush.

The simple fact of him telling her where he would go sat in her like a new kind of warmth. He was not someone who explained his absences. Not out of secrecy, but habit. Yet now he had chosen to. And somehow, that small courtesy felt more intimate than any touch.

It was a bit awkward, yes, but entirely hers.

Marion arrived soon after with a tray. Steam rose from a plate, carrying the faint, reassuring scent of the omelette with cheese she liked so much. He set the food on the windowsill where the afternoon pooled warm, straightened the napkin with practised care, and left Ilaria to the silence she had chosen.

She ate with small, deliberate motions — a bite, a pause, a look toward the door — and with each mouthful the tightness in her chest eased a fraction. The memory of the morning’s fear retreated, carried off by the simple arithmetic of egg and cheese and the world that continued to turn.

Later, when the tray had been cleared and the room lowered into that thin, private light between day and dusk, she made her way to his bed. It still held the faint cedar and iron of him, a scent that had become a small, steady comfort. She did not know why, but it felt embarrassing to touch what was his.

After a moment of hesitation, she lay down with no ceremony, folding herself into the hollow of the mattress where his weight had once pressed the linen. The sheets were cool, and when she reached for the blanket nearby, she folded it into a huggable bundle, pulling it to her chest.

It smelled faintly of him that her fingers curled into the fabric before she could stop herself. The thought alone made her cheeks burn, and she immediately buried her face in it, half in embarrassment, half in surrender. It was utterly and hopelessly ridiculous, that something as simple as his scent could make her heart tumble this way.

And yet here she was, curled up in his bed, kicking her feet beneath the covers like a girl who could not decide whether to laugh or hide while smiling into the linen that carried his smell.

"Smelled so nice..." she murmured to herself, feeling giddy at the thought of being allowed to such a luxury.

She stayed curled until her lids drooped heavy; the day had quieted something in her that the night had only made tender. Thought thinned into a slow procession. The events at the gallery, the dark veins like ink beneath her skin, his hand when he had smoothed that dried tear away.

Sleep took her that easily. Not the fierce, fitful kind but a soft sinking, the sort that stitches a body back together. Her breath evened, the small rise and fall of it steadying the hush of the chamber. Outside, the palace continued its distant work, but inside the room a small peace unspooled.

When Levan finally returned, the light had dimmed to a gentle amber. The only brightness in the room was the glow of the still burning candles. The chamber was too quiet, and for a fleeting moment, he thought she might have gone elsewhere.

But then his gaze found her.

Ilaria lay curled on the far side of the bed, her hair a soft spill of silver against the dark linen, her arms wound tightly around the bundled blanket she had pulled into her embrace. She had not draped it over herself, only gathered it close as though the thought of warmth mattered less than the comfort of holding something that belonged to him.

Because of that, nothing hid her from his view. His gaze followed the quiet lines of her form, the delicate curve of her back, the way her fingers clutched the fabric with unconscious need. His eyes drifted lower, catching on the soft tangle of her legs where her gown had ridden up, baring a pale stretch of her calves to the cool air.

The world he had left was momentarily irrelevant; it had to be. Carefully, he closed the door behind him with the gentleness of someone who had learned the cost of thoughtless noise. Waking her up was the last thing he wanted.

Levan removed his cloak and draped it over the nearby chair. The sound of the fabric brushing wood was the only thing that dared move between them. For a while, he simply stood there, his eyes caught on the fragile shape curled upon his bed.

He should have turned away. There were still reports to read, and yet none of them seemed to matter when faced with the simple reality of her sleeping and wholly unaware of the way her presence disarmed him.

He drew a slow breath, steadying the unrest in his chest. He had always believed devotion to duty meant cutting away everything that could weaken him. But now, watching her breathe beneath the pale light, he wondered if he had mistaken care and gentleness for weakness all along.

He pressed his thumb to his brow, as though he could will the thought away. It would do him no good to dwell on it. And yet, for the first time in a long while, he found himself wanting to.

Slowly, he moved closer to the bed, careful not to wake her. From here, he could hear the faint sound of her breath and took in how soft she looked. His gaze fell again to the hem of her gown that had ridden up her legs. With a quiet sigh, he tugged the fabric down.

Then his eyes caught on the blanket still crushed tightly in her arms. He reached for it out of instinct, intent on draping it properly over her, but the thought faltered halfway when Melyn’s words echoed in his memory: She clings to something when she sleeps.

For a moment, his hand hovered in the air. The softness of her breathing brushed the edge of his restraint. He looked at the way her fingers curled into the blanket’s folds, knuckles pale against the dark fabric as though she would fall apart if she let go.

He hesitated, then withdrew his hand completely. Honestly, she looked so far removed from the weight of the world that he almost could not bring himself to disturb her. But the chill in the room pressed close, and reason tugged at him again.

With a quiet exhale, Levan sat at the edge of the bed just beside her curling figure. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, the motion subtle enough that it might have passed for a dream. Then he reached out, letting his fingers brush the blanket still trapped in her arms.

"Ilaria," he called.

No response. Only the faint crease between her brows, as if her dreams had turned uncertain.

He noted her reaction and tried again, this time gentler. His hand moved from the blanket to her cool arm, his thumb tracing the edge of her sleeve, a touch so light it barely registered.

He leaned in a bit.

"Aria," he called again, the name falling quieter still.

She finally stirred at that. A small, sleepy sound escaped her throat as her lashes fluttered open. Confused, drowsy eyes blinked up at him, unfocused at first, then slowly realizing who sat before her.

"...Husband?" Her voice was soft, still warm from sleep.

He only nodded once, the faintest curve of relief falling on his lips as he moved his hand to brush her messy hair away from her face. "You’ll catch a chill like this."

"Mmh..." she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper as she leaned into his touch. "You’re back already?"

"Yes," he answered. "It’s raining outside. Are you not cold? You should be under the blanket, not fighting it."

Her lips curved into the smallest of smiles. "Wasn’t fighting it," she murmured. "It’s just warm..."

"Warm?" he echoed, taking the blanket from her arms as she reluctantly released it. "This?"

She gave a tiny nod, eyes fluttering half-shut again. "It smells like you."

The words slipped out before she could stop them. When she realized, colour bloomed faintly across her cheeks, making her burrow her face into the pillow, muttering, "Forget I said that..."

But Levan only let out a quiet, amused breath, like he had expected she would say something like that. "Okay," he said, though the tone of his voice made it clear he would not.

He spread the blanket properly and tucked it around her shoulders, draping it down her body until it looked like she was consumed by its softness. He took the pillow meant for the other side of the bed and gave it to her to hug. "Go back to sleep."

"...And you?"

"I’ll rest soon."

She hummed in response, already half gone, and within moments the room fell quiet again. Levan stayed a moment longer, watching as the last traces of wakefulness slipped from her features.

Certain she would not wake, he rose at last, careful not to disturb the stillness he had built around her. His papers were waiting by the adjoining door that led to his study. Duty, once again, called him back into its quiet, endless hold, much to his dismay.

He was sure she was too sleepy to move that when he finally left, he really did not expect the sound of her bare feet to follow him, nor the soft echo of his name, half dream, half defiance, breaking through the hush he had left behind.