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Summary
His gaze unerringly flicks back to the man seated at the dressing table. There is a curl of hair out of place atop his head, and Estinien’s fingers itch to correct it. As he watches Aymeric work, he is entranced by the slow movement of his hands, the careful artistry of his strokes as he darkens the edge of each eyelid with soot-black kohl. ‘Tis nothing Estinien has not seen before, accustomed as he is to seeing Aymeric in everything from the most formal of outfits to tattered chainmail covered in blood and mud after a battle.
And yet—
