Julian looked down at his hands, where the soot was smeared over red, angry scalds from where he had swatted at the embers.

His hands were trembling.

"But I can’t even get the tea right, Lucien," Julian sobbed, the first tear finally breaking free and carving a pale path through the soot on his cheek. "I’m a scholar who can’t even manage a fireplace. I wanted to be your warmth, but I’m just... I’m just making a mess."

Alaric didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees in the soot, heedless of his clean clothes, and pulled Julian into his arms. He wrapped his large hands around Julian’s burnt fingers, his touch infinitely careful.

"Look at me," Alaric commanded softly, tilting Julian’s chin up.

Julian tried to pull away, ashamed of the blackened room and his own inadequacy.

"Don’t look at me like this. I’m a failure."

"You are not a failure," Alaric rasped, his blue eyes burning with an intensity that made Julian’s breath hitch. "You think I want a perfect cup of tea? You think I care about the rug?" He pressed his forehead against Julian’s, his voice thick with emotion. "Julian, you burned your hands trying to save a piece of string because you thought it would make me happy. That is the gift. The fact that you would fight a fire for me is more than I have ever received in thirty years."

He kissed the tip of Julian’s soot-covered nose, then the reddened fingers.

"The North is hard, Julian. It breaks everything that isn’t steel. But you... You aren’t supposed to be steel. You’re the reason I stay steel. To protect and to guide."

Despite Alaric’s warmth, Julian felt a lingering, hollow ache in his chest. Alaric was being kind—he was being the perfect, protective lover—but Julian could see the exhaustion behind Alaric’s eyes.

The Duke had come home from the mines to find a soot-covered room and a crying lover. Instead of leaning on Julian, Alaric was once again the one doing the supporting.

How much more of a burden was he going to become?

Why couldn’t he be the warmth and shoulder Alaric could lean on?

This thing called love... It was more complicated than any book could explain.

Julian allowed himself to be carried to the bed, allowed Alaric to wash the soot from his face and bandage his fingers, but the silence between them felt different tonight.

As Alaric finally blew out the last candle and pulled Julian against his chest, the scholar lay awake, staring at the darkened ceiling and listening to the crackling fire.

The ’Hearth-Gift’ had been a disaster. He hadn’t eased the Duke’s burden; he had added to it.

And at the end of the day, he would boldly claim he loved the Duke. With words.

Words are cheap... What have you done to prove it?

Zane’s voice echoed in the back of his mind, no longer sounding like a taunt, but like a diagnosis.

He really... didn’t know how to prove his love.

The realization of it left him feeling pathetic and hollow inside.

"Are you... still thinking about it?" The Duke, who could feel Julian’s heart beating in a changing rhythm, asked.

Julian thought he had fallen asleep, but he was still awake.

Alaric had developed a habit of staying awake until Julian slept, and kept a little watch of his heartbeat.

It was something that crept up like a trauma from all the things that happened in the capital.

Just as Julian had his insecurities about expressing his feelings, the Duke also had his insecurities. And that was not something about feelings, but trying to make sure Julian was never out of reach again.

Trying to make sure that no one took him, not even a demon that could control bodies. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢

"I know how much you love me even if you don’t do anything about it," Alaric claimed. "So, do not trouble yourself over it."

Julian did not respond to the Duke, but he pursed his lips.

He wanted to be a better lover.

He wanted... to express his love better.

And even if Alaric claimed he already felt his love, it didn’t make him feel better.

He felt the Duke was being considerate. The Duke was kind to his lover, especially obsessed to the point that he would not even complain if Julian never spoke those words I love you.

He would prove it.

Even if he has to learn the method from the devil himself, he would definitely prove it.

At this point, it wasn’t just about proving his love for the Duke; Julian was trying to convince himself that he did indeed love the Duke.

Past words, he still had his doubts.

And he could only resolve those doubts once he made a convincing move.

The next morning, the failure of the night before sat heavily in Julian’s chest. Alaric had left before dawn to deal with the mines, leaving Julian alone in the manor.

He was walking through the gallery, heading toward Lucius’s room, when he saw Zane standing by a tall, arched window.

The Prince was bathed in the pale morning light, looking refreshed and entirely too smug.

"The Hearth-Gift didn’t go well, did it?" Zane asked, not even turning around.

Julian stopped, his jaw tightening. "How do you—"

"I have ears, Scholar. And I know the smell of burnt herbs," Zane turned, his amber eyes dancing with a sharp, knowing light as they looked down at his bandaged fingers. "And burnt flesh."

Julian instinctively hid his hands behind his back and bit his bottom lip.

Zane chuckled, a low growling sound.

"You tried to be a Northern wife, didn’t you? You tried to give him a ’hearth’ when the man is a storm. You can’t fight a blizzard with a candle, Julian."

Julian’s brows furrowed together.

He wanted to walk away, but his feet stayed rooted to the floor as Zane’s words hit the exact spot where Julian’s insecurity lived.

"Alaric is a man of dual blood," Zane said, stepping closer, his voice dropping to that hypnotic, desert silk. "He has beaten the North into his bones, but he still has the South in his soul. He doesn’t need peace and simple warmth. He needs devotion. He needs to be reminded that his blood is fire. And you... You are the only one who can stroke the flames."