The third month of marriage.
The moon turned full again by week's end.
Winter set in.
And Solestra's east wind always carried something thin—
Like the feeling you're about to lose something you haven't even held yet.

Gawin started coughing in the morning.
Just once. Nothing serious.

Joss heard it. Said nothing.
But quietly left a second flask of herbal water beside the tea.

—

Three days later, Gawin skipped breakfast.

"Not hungry," he said, voice hoarse.

Joss nodded. Didn't press.

But that evening, Gawin didn't get out of bed.

Not because he was sad.
But because his temperature had begun to rise—quietly, steadily—
like warmth spreading through the center of a palm.

—

The royal physicians were summoned.

Diagnosis: unclear. Possibly connected to the old Lunarian prophecy, the one written in archaic calligraphy about the "ailing princess" whose health would never hold until after her eighteenth year.

"Though the danger has passed," the physician said,
"the Princess's body still bears the echo of that old curse. Her constitution is weak—susceptible to fever, fatigue."

"How long will it last?" Joss asked.

"A few days, if she rests.
Sooner, if she's cared for properly."

—

And then Joss did something no one expected.

"Leave us."

"But, Your Highness, if it's only you—"

"I'll take care of her."

—

The doors closed.

The room held only the hush of winter wind,
the soft sound of water soaking into cloth,
a body lying under blankets, cheeks flushed, eyes dazed,
and someone sitting beside the bed—

Holding the cloth like it was a love letter he hadn't dared to open.

—

Joss gently laid the cloth across Gawin's brow.

And stayed there.

He didn't touch again.
Didn't speak much.
Just watched.

Like he had always done, these past few months.

—

Gawin breathed softly.
Each breath light as a moth's wing.

His eyes were closed.
But he knew someone was near.

"He's here.
So close.
And I...
I can't pretend anymore."

—

A while later, Joss reached for the cloth again.

As he leaned in, his sleeve brushed Gawin's cheek—just a feather of contact.

It was enough.
Gawin's eyes opened.

Blurry.
But clear in something deeper.

The gaze of someone who knew exactly who was caring for him.
And who also knew that his heart had given way—
Long before the fever did.

—

"You're awake?" Joss asked softly.

"Mm."

His voice was tired.
But underneath, there was a quiet warmth, like a smile that hadn't made it to the lips.

"Why are you doing this yourself?"

"Because I didn't want anyone else touching you right now."

Gawin said nothing.

"That's... not something someone distant would say."

—

Joss took his hand.

Gently.

For the first time—
not as a husband.
But as someone afraid of letting something slip away.

—

Then the vei on Gawin's face slipped.

Joss reached to adjust it—

But froze mid-motion.

Because at that exact moment,
the moonlight slipped through the curtain.

And he saw.

The eyes.
The lashes.
The mouth.

The face he thought he'd forgotten.

—

He stopped breathing.

"No way..."

He leaned closer.

Heart racing ahead of his thoughts.

"Those eyes.
Those lashes.
It's you.

It's the one I danced with.

The one I've kept beside my heart for three months."

—

Gawin smiled.

Didn't speak.

Didn't deny it.

He let his eyes say what words never had.

And in that moment—
Joss dropped everything.
The doubt.
The distance.
The name "Kaween."

And for the first time,
he looked at his wife—
like he was seeing his person.

—

"It's you..."
His voice barely louder than a prayer.
"It's really you?"

Gawin exhaled, gently closing his hand over Joss's.

Still weak.
But his heartbeat answered loud enough.

"Yes. It's me."