"Why am I so stupid?"

  I dragged both hands down my face, groaning into my palms, before peeking through my fingers at Rocher.

  He was asleep on his stomach, one arm thrown carelessly over my pillow. The sheet had slipped low, revealing the sharp curve of his shoulder and the map of old scars across his back.

  He looked peaceful. Unguarded. Like this was where he belonged all along.

  The warmth the wine had given me had evaporated, leaving me cold and sober enough to know exactly what I had done.

  I had promised myself I would be careful. If the Mountain Guardian's trial failed, I pnned to give his memories back slowly. Gently. In pieces that didn't anchor him to me. A chance for him to choose, instead of falling headlong into something he couldn't remember agreeing to.

  Instead, I had reached for him the same way I always did. The same way Evelyn warned us about. Comfort first. Thought ter. As if wanting him badly could be justification enough.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, breath tight in my chest. This was exactly how it always started. I was a pathetic, eager—

  A knock on the door interrupted my spiral.

  Firm. Purposeful.

  I froze.

  Beside me, the mattress dipped as Rocher stirred. He blinked awake with a slow, confused smile.

  "Hey—"

  I spped a hand over his mouth before the sound could fully form.

  "Don't make a sound," I whispered, eyes wide.

  He nodded slowly, eyes glinting with way too much amusement for this ungodly hour.

  Another knock. Louder.

  "Miss Cire?" Etienne's voice—composed, crisp, entirely unaware—carried through the door. "Are you awake? We must speak with you at once."

  For a second, I exhaled. It was just the Duke.

  Then my thoughts returned fully.

  Oh no.

  "Cire," Lumiere added, calm and warm and terrifying. "Please answer the door. It's important."

  I made a muffled noise somewhere between a sob and a dying animal.

  Rocher tried to sit up. I pointed furiously toward the washroom.

  "Hide," I mouthed.

  He raised a brow like this was all extremely entertaining.

  "Go!" I hissed, shoving him.

  He slipped out of the bed and darted into the washroom with surprising grace for someone half-asleep.

  "One moment!" I called, voice cracking.

  I filed into my robe—backward. Corrected it. Nearly strangled myself with the sash. My slippers were on the wrong feet. I pretended not to notice.

  I cracked the door open by an inch.

  Etienne stood perfectly upright, hands behind his back, expression neutral and ready for business. Then he saw me.

  His eyes swept over my disheveled robe, my hair that looked like it had been styled by a windstorm, my puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

  He turned scarlet so fast it was nearly audible. He spun sharply to face the wall.

  "My deepest apologies, Miss Cire, I did not realize—I mean, I did not intend—that is—"

  Lumiere let out a small, graceful sigh beside him. She pced a hand on his shoulder to prevent him from fleeing the building, then looked at me. Her gaze flicked once—just once—past my shoulder toward the interior of the room. Her expression did not change.

  "Sister," Lumiere said, gentle but firm. "Please make yourself presentable. I've arranged an emergency meeting with the king."

  "So early in the morning?" I croaked. The sun wasn't even up yet.

  She nodded briskly. "We need to move before Corveaux does. Will you be there?"

  "I will. I just... need a moment."

  "One hour," Lumiere said, voice soft but slicing straight through me. "Make sure you prepare your case to His Majesty. He is bound to be skeptical at first."

  "Understood," I replied with a solemnity unbefitting my state of dress.

  Lumiere paused for a second, then continued. "And do tell Rocher while he's in your washroom, to get ready too."

  My heart detonated.

  The door clicked shut.

  I pressed my forehead to the wood of the door.

  "I am never drinking again," I whispered.

  I found Rocher in the washroom, crouched in the corner as if his rge frame could simply fold itself away.

  "Are they gone?" he asked.

  "Yeah." I leaned back against the doorframe, trying to slow my heart rate. "But we have to get ready to leave soon."

  I turned to the copper tub. It was still filled from st night, but the water had gone cold. Scented oils dotted the edge where the servants had left them.

  I flicked my fingers.

  "Spark."

  A small fme danced at my fingertip. I directed it at the water, watching the steam begin to rise.

  "You can do magic," Rocher said on a breath.

  "Just this and a few other small spells," I said, too quickly.

  He shook his head, watching the steam curl. "That's convenient. I'm jealous." He offered a wry, sleepy smile. "Every time I look, I feel like I learn something new about you."

  I sighed softly at that. He had no idea how much of himself was still missing. How impressive his own magic was.

  Steam began to fog the edges of the room, softening the sharp lines of the stone walls.

  I tugged the robe loose at my shoulders. The silk slid down in a soft whisper, pooling at my elbows.

  Rocher stood up instantly. So fast he nearly knocked his elbow into the washstand.

  "Oh," he said, somewhere between a cough and a choke. "I, um. I should. I mean, I can go. Give you space."

  His ears were bright red.

  As he turned, I noticed the dark, damp spot on the front of his shirt where my face had been pressed earlier.

  "I drooled on you," I blurted.

  He looked down, saw it, and went even redder. "It's nothing. Not the first time this has happened to me—"

  He winced, as if regretting the words the moment they left his mouth.

  "Use the basin," I said, heat flooding my face. "At least rinse it before you go."

  He nodded, visibly relieved to have a practical task.

  "I'll do that," he began, then stopped. "You should get in the bath first. I'll close my eyes."

  "Okay."

  I stepped out of the robe briskly and lowered myself into the tub. The warm water closed over me with a soft spsh, stealing a breath from my chest. I sank deep, letting the heat seep into my bones. Only when the little spshes settled did I hear him begin to move.

  A soft rustle of fabric. The dip of cloth into the basin. The faint, careful swish as he worked the damp patch clean.

  I leaned back against the copper edge and closed my eyes.

  Rocher wrung the st of the water from his shirt and hung it carefully over the edge of the washstand. It dripped in a slow, patient rhythm onto the stone floor.

  "Might be a minute before it dries," he said, his voice echoing slightly in the small room.

  "I'll help it along once I'm done," I murmured, eyes still closed.

  "Alright. I'll just... face this wall then." He turned and studied the stone intently. "You know, it's an interesting design once you really look at it."

  I smiled despite myself and looked over at him through the thin veil of steam. Without the shirt, there was nothing to hide the lines of him. The quiet breadth of his shoulders. The familiar scars tracing maps over his skin. The way his muscles shifted when he breathed.

  He did exactly what he promised. Eyes fixed on the wall. Back straight. Shoulders stiff with the effort of being good.

  Then his gaze slipped.

  Just a fraction. Just the smallest, treacherous flick of curiosity.

  Our eyes met for half a second.

  His ears went red instantly. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to."

  "It's fine," I said, turning away, heat crawling up my throat. I sank a little deeper into the water, which only made it worse. "You were bound to look eventually."

  "I wasn't trying to," he said, mortified. "It's just..."

  I gnced at him. "What?"

  He hesitated. "Your hair. I noticed earlier. It's... very tangled."

  "I know," I said ftly. "They braided it yesterday like I was a festival horse and then never bothered to undo it."

  He grimaced in sympathy. He shifted on his feet, then stopped himself, clearly debating something.

  "I could help," he said, carefully. "If you want, I mean. Only if you want. I'm good at untangling things."

  I blinked. "You are?"

  "My mother was the same way," he said. "She used to compin after every party. Made me fix it when it got caught."

  The idea of trying to do it myself made my shoulders ache preemptively. "Alright," I said. "But be gentle."

  "I will."

  I turned in the tub, tipping my head so the wet strands fell away from my face. It came apart in stubborn, uneven clumps, little ghosts of st night's braids still woven through it.

  Rocher scooted closer, careful not to look, and reached out.

  "Just tell me if it hurts."

  I nodded.

  His fingers brushed the ends of my hair first, light and tentative. He worked slowly, teasing apart one knot at a time with quiet concentration. The pull was gentle, more patient than skilled. Every time he met resistance, he eased back instead of forcing it.

  I'd expected it to be uncomfortable. It was not. My shoulders loosened, just a fraction, the tension in my neck beginning to unravel under his touch.

  "Rocher," I said quietly.

  He paused at once. "Yes?"

  "Could you... help me wash it too?"

  His fingers stilled in my hair. For a heartbeat he did not move at all, as if making sure he had heard me correctly.

  "If you want," he said carefully.

  I didn't answer him. I just shifted forward in the tub, leaning over so the length of my hair trailed into the water.

  He worked the soap between his hands first, then brought them to my head—the sensation sending a small shiver up my spine. His fingers spread through my hair, slow and deliberate, massaging it into my scalp with careful pressure.

  I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

  "Too hard?" he asked immediately.

  "No," I murmured, my eyes slipping shut. "It's... good."

  So he kept going. Warm water and steady hands and the quiet rhythm of his movements made the room feel very far away. The tension I had been carrying since the ball began to dissolve in the steam. For a moment, I stopped thinking about Guardians or memories or the Crown Prince. I just let myself melt into the warmth of the water and his care.

  He rinsed the soap from my hair with careful scoops of water, shielding my face with his free hand without being asked.

  "Thank you," I said.

  He smiled, small and a little shy.

  Then it hit me all at once. How close we were. How easily I let it happen again.

  The space between us wasn't empty anymore; it was thick with things we weren't saying.

  "It's almost time," I said quickly, eager to break the spell.

  I pushed myself upright, and took a hurried step past him. Rocher's eyes went wide.

  The wet stone betrayed me. My foot slipped, and my bance went with it.

  "Cire," he said, sudden and sharp.

  He reached for me before I could fall.

  His arms closed around me, steady and instinctive. One arm banded around my shoulders, the other bracing my back. I was pressed against him, wet skin to skin. He was warm—burning hot compared to the water.

  "Careful," he murmured, the word rumbling through his chest and into mine.

  For a heartbeat, neither of us moved.

  His breath stirred the damp hair at my temple. My face burned. I looked up at him, but his eyes were squeezed shut, water dripping from his bangs. His jaw was clenched tight.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked.

  "No," I whispered.

  He didn't open his eyes. One of his hands left me to fumble blindly along the edge of the washstand until he found a towel.

  I pulled back as soon as my footing was sure, the space between us opening like a sudden draft. The air felt cold against my skin where he had been.

  I grabbed the towel and wrapped it around myself, holding it close like it could put things back in order.

  "You can open your eyes now," I said, a little too softly.

  He did. Carefully. One eye at a time.

  Water had spshed him when he caught me. His hair was damp, his chest glistening, and even his trousers were marked with wet patches. I noticed it and winced.

  "I'm sorry," I said. "I got you again."

  "It's fine," he said quickly, though his voice was rough. "Really."

  "I mean it," I said, flustered. "I'll... I'll dry those too, once I'm done."

  It came out more awkward than I intended. He went red, then nodded, grateful for something practical to tch onto.

  We moved apart, both of us suddenly too aware of how small the room was.

  I dressed quickly. Linen, ces, the small familiar motions of putting myself back together. My hair hung damp and heavy against my jaw, still dark with water.

  I did not reach for a brush.

  Something about leaving it loose felt right. Like not forcing it into shape just yet.

  Rocher tugged his shirt back on, smoothing the fabric where it still clung faintly to him. He kept gncing over as if to check whether I needed anything, then catching himself and looking away again.

  "All set?" he asked.

  "Almost." I squeezed the st of the water from my hair with the towel and let it fall how it wanted to. Unstyled. Unadorned.

  Familiar.

  When I looked up, Rocher was watching me with a quiet, uncertain sort of brightness. Like he was happy to be chosen, even for something small.

  I turned towards the door, cheeks burning, pretending I was not already in deeper than I meant to be.

  "Let's go," I said. "Best not to keep Lumiere waiting."