Chapter Text
The medical wing of the Bimarstan smelled overwhelmingly of dried padisarahs and crushed zaytun peaches—a sharp, clinical attempt to mask the heavy scent of dust, sweat, and baked earth brought in by travelers from the desert outer lands.
Kaveh blinked slowly at the ceiling, his vision taking several long seconds to pull the stark white plaster into focus. A jagged crack ran across the surface above him, tracing a shape that felt faintly familiar, like the sprawling floor plan of a grand estate, though his concussed brain couldn't quite pin down the geometry. His head throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm, pulsing behind his temples with every subtle movement of his neck.
"He's finally regaining consciousness," a quiet, hesitant voice noted nearby. It belonged to a junior scholar, likely an assistant attached to the Amurta medical rotation. "The attending physicians evaluated the blunt force trauma an hour ago, but the concussion was severe. We were genuinely concerned about lasting cognitive impairment."
"His cognitive functions were impaired long before he ever decided to step foot into an unstable desert vault," a second voice replied.
The tone was entirely flat, stripped of any theatricality, and hit Kaveh’s ears with a sharp, reverberating familiarity. It was deep, crisp, and carried the quiet, unbothered weight of someone who had never once felt the need to justify his presence in a room.
Kaveh turned his head slowly toward the sound, wincing as a sharp line of pain shot down his neck into his shoulder.
Leaning casually against the polished wooden frame of the doorway stood a tall man with pale grey hair fading into light teal at the tips. He wore a heavy, tailored dark coat trimmed with brass and turquoise accents, his arms folded across his chest, a set of soundproof earpieces resting securely over his ears. He looked entirely undisturbed by the sterile panic of the medical ward around him, a leather-bound volume tucked loosely under one arm.
Kaveh stared. The man was... striking. Remarkably so. There was a deliberate, calculated precision to the line of his jaw and a sharp, quiet intensity in his unusual teal-and-orange eyes.
The immediate, overwhelming problem was that Kaveh had no idea who he was.
As Kaveh reached into his own mind, reaching for basic facts to anchor himself, he met vast, terrifying patches of complete emptiness. He knew his own name—Kaveh. He knew he was a senior architect, a proud graduate of the Kshahrewar Darshan. He could effortlessly recall the load-bearing limits of reinforced sandstone, the structural evolution of Fontaine arches, and the precise mathematical ratios required to mix stable mortar. He knew the exact weight of a brass T-square in his palm.
He did not, however, remember how he had ended up in this cot. He did not remember what ruin he had been surveying. And he certainly did not recognize the handsome, infuriatingly composed man standing at the foot of his bed.
"Well?" the grey-haired man asked, stepping into the alcove. He looked down at Kaveh, his gaze purely analytical, as if evaluating a blueprint with a minor drafting error. "Are you going to say something, or did the falling stone permanently damage your ability to speak?"
Kaveh cleared his throat, his throat feeling as dry as the sands he had apparently been buried under. "I... who..." He swallowed hard, trying to assemble a coherent sentence that didn't betray his complete vulnerability. "Where am I?"
The man let out a short, quiet breath—not quite a sigh, but close to it. "The Bimarstan. You were inspecting a minor ruin site near the Wall of Samiel. Predictably, you ignored the structural warnings regarding the lower vaults, step-turned straight into a collapsing archway, and brought a section of the ceiling down on yourself. The expedition team dragged you out and brought you back to the city."
"I see," Kaveh muttered, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead to dull the throbbing. "And... who are you?"
A heavy silence fell over the small cubicle. The assistant scholar near the door winced slightly, stepping back to busy himself with another patient's chart, leaving the two of them alone in the quiet space.
The grey-haired man didn't look shocked. He didn't panic or call for a doctor. He simply closed his journal with a soft snap and studied Kaveh, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You don't recognize me?"
"I know I should," Kaveh admitted quickly, feeling a sudden, ridiculous surge of embarrassment. Why was he the one feeling embarrassed? He was the victim here! "I know my name, and I know my profession, but... everything else is a complete blur. The scholar said it's a severe concussion. My memory is... missing entire sections. Who are you to me?"
Alhaitham stood silently for a long moment, processing the statement. The Amurta physicians had warned him that retrograde amnesia was a possible outcome of the impact, but seeing it manifest was an odd experience. Kaveh was looking up at him not with his usual fiery, defensive indignation, but with wide, uncertain eyes that were entirely devoid of spite.
Alhaitham favored direct efficiency. Plain, unfiltered facts were always the quickest route to resolving confusion. He saw no reason to complicate a temporary medical issue with a long, exhausting history lesson.
"My name is Alhaitham," he said plainly, his voice smooth and entirely matter-of-fact. "As for our arrangement: you live with me. I cover the majority of our living expenses and rent. You spend most of your evenings in our living room, complaining to me about your work, and I spend most of my time attempting to read while you demand my attention."
Kaveh’s breath hitched in his throat.
His scattered, concussed brain took those exact, literal sentences and immediately reassembled them into a completely different reality.
You live with me. (We share a home and a life.)
I cover the majority of our living expenses. (He supports me financially because he cares for me.)
You spend your evenings complaining to me, demanding my attention. (We are deeply domestic, comfortable with each other, and emotionally attached.)
Kaveh’s face flushed red, a vivid heat spreading rapidly from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.
Oh, Kaveh thought, his mind spinning into overdrive. Oh, gods above. He's my partner.
It made total sense. Look at him! Alhaitham was gorgeous, poised, and clearly deeply invested in his well-being—after all, he was here at the hospital, taking care of him, speaking to him with the familiar, quiet confidence of someone who knew him inside out. And Kaveh lived in his house! They shared a life!
Kaveh swallowed hard, suddenly terrified of appearing cold or ungrateful to the man who was so clearly taking care of him. "I... I see. I'm so sorry, Alhaitham. It must be awful for you to see me like this."
Alhaitham blinked, entirely unphased. "Awful? No. It's an inconvenience, but the doctors assured me your physical injuries are minor. A few days of rest should suffice."
He's trying to stay strong for me, Kaveh thought, deeply moved by what he interpreted as a stoic, brave front. He's emotionally reserved, but he cares so much.
"Right," Kaveh said, offering a soft, hesitant smile that was entirely foreign to any expression Alhaitham had ever seen on the architect's face. "Thank you for coming to collect me. I... I promise I'll make it up to you once I'm back on my feet."
Alhaitham stared at him for three full seconds, visibly processing the unprecedented gentleness of the tone, before giving a slow nod. "The doctor signed your release forms. If you can walk, we are going home. I have no intention of spending another hour in this humidity."
"Of course," Kaveh said quickly, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot. The moment his feet touched the cool tiles, the entire room tilted violently. He stumbled forward, his hands reaching out on instinct.
Before he could hit the floor, a strong arm caught him around the waist, pulling him firmly against a solid chest. Alhaitham’s grip was unyielding, holding Kaveh effortlessly until the wave of nausea and vertigo passed.
Kaveh’s heart slammed against his ribs. Being this close to Alhaitham was dizzying in an entirely non-medical way. He could smell sandalwood, rain, and the faint, crisp scent of old parchment clinging to Alhaitham's dark coat. He looked up, his face inches from Alhaitham’s neck, and gasped softly.
"Careful," Alhaitham murmured, the vibration of his voice buzzing through his chest. "I am not carrying you through the Grand Bazaar."
"I'm sorry," Kaveh squeaked, clutching at Alhaitham's shoulder—noticing the broad, firm muscle beneath the fabric. "I've got my balance now. Thank you."
Alhaitham adjusted his hold, keeping a supportive arm wrapped around Kaveh’s waist as they slowly navigated out of the Bimarstan and stepped out into the warm afternoon air of Sumeru City.
To any passerby, it looked like a simple scene: the former Acting Grand Sage helping his accident-prone housemate return from the clinic. But to Kaveh, every single step felt like a profound revelation. Every time Alhaitham tightened his grip slightly to pull him away from a passing crowd or a runaway cargo cart, Kaveh’s heart fluttered with a sweet, intense warmth.
He's so protective of me, Kaveh thought, leaning just a little closer into Alhaitham’s side as they made their way up the winding stone paths toward the residential district. I don't remember how we got together, but I must be the luckiest man in Sumeru.
They finally reached a quiet, beautifully constructed house tucked near the upper tiers of the city. Alhaitham unlocked the heavy wooden door, pushing it open and stepping aside to let Kaveh precede him into the entry.
The interior was warm, flooded with late-afternoon sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows. Books were stacked neatly on side tables, a plush divan sat in the center of the living area, and the subtle scent of tea hung in the air. It felt deeply lived-in, cozy, and distinctly theirs.
"Sit," Alhaitham instructed softly, gesturing toward the divan. "I will prepare tea and review the medical instructions the Amurta scholars gave me."
Kaveh walked over carefully, setting himself down on the soft cushions. He watched as Alhaitham moved around the kitchen space with effortless grace, setting a kettle to heat, retrieving two ceramic cups, and moving with the quiet efficiency of someone who knew the space intimately.
Alhaitham returned to the living area moments later, carrying two steaming cups of tea. He set one down on the low wooden coffee table right in front of Kaveh before sitting down on the opposite end of the divan. Unfolding the small slip of parchment from the clinic, he squinted slightly at the hurried handwriting of the attending scholar.
"The medical report suggests strict rest for at least three days," Alhaitham said, his voice dropping into that low, even register. "No heavy lifting, no prolonged exposure to direct sunlight, and absolutely no drafting complex architectural schematics until the swelling behind your optic nerve subsides completely."
Kaveh nodded eagerly, taking a tiny sip from his teacup. It was sweetened with a touch of honey—just enough to soften the bitterness of the medicinal herbs. He even remembers exactly how I like my tea, Kaveh thought, his heart swelling with a sudden wave of affection.
"I can do that," Kaveh said softly, looking over the rim of the cup with bright, earnest eyes. "I'll follow whatever rules you set out for me, Alhaitham. I know how much trouble I must be causing you."
Alhaitham paused, his eyes flicking away from the parchment to fix Kaveh with a long, measuring look. He tilted his head slightly. The utter lack of dramatic resistance was startling. Usually, telling Kaveh he wasn't allowed to draw or design was met with a dramatic two-hour debate on artistic expression, municipal deadlines, and administrative tyranny.
"Trouble?" Alhaitham repeated, setting the paper down. "It is an inconvenience, yes. But you managed to avoid cracking your skull open entirely, so I suppose the logistics of bringing you home were manageable. You do not need to sound so... agreeable. It's unnatural."
Kaveh felt a quick pang in his chest. Unnatural? Ah, of course, he realized immediately, offering a reassuring, gentle smile. I've lost my memory, so I'm not acting like the person he fell in love with yet. He's worried I've changed, or that I'm pulling away from him because of the amnesia!
Reaching across the short distance between them on the divan, Kaveh placed his hand gently over Alhaitham's. His palm was warm against the cool fabric of Alhaitham's glove.
Alhaitham went entirely still. His eyes dropped down to where Kaveh's fingers were resting over his own, his expression completely unreadable.
"I know things are confusing right now," Kaveh murmured, his tone tender and dripping with a sincere warmth that made Alhaitham's brow furrow in genuine perplexity. "And I know it must be painful for you that I can't remember all the quiet, special moments we've shared together in this house. But I promise you, Alhaitham... I still feel it. Deep down, I know who you are to me. I'm going to make sure you never feel like you're going through this alone."
Alhaitham stared at him. The silence stretched out between them, long and thick with completely misaligned understanding.
In Alhaitham's mind, a swift series of logical deductions took place. He thinks his memory loss is distressing to me. He believes his absence of recollection regarding our past arguments and financial debts creates an emotional burden for the household. He is attempting to compensate for his perceived burden by being unnaturally compliant and affectionate.
"I see," Alhaitham said carefully, pulling his hand back under the guise of reaching for his own tea. He took a sip, assessing the situation with his usual cool detachment. If Kaveh believed that being sweet and overly accommodating was the fastest way to ease the awkwardness of his recovery, Alhaitham saw no immediate reason to aggressively debate the point. A quiet, agreeable Kaveh who took his medicine and stayed off his feet was, frankly, an absolute luxury compared to the usual storm of dramatic outbursts and misplaced papers. "There is no need to exert yourself trying to force memories to surface. We will proceed as we normally do. Eat, rest, and allow the concussion to heal."
"Proceed as we normally do," Kaveh echoed softly, a delicate blush returning to his face. "Yes. Of course."
He took another sip of tea, his mind spinning with sweet scenarios of what "normal" entailed for a couple living together in this gorgeous home. Did they cook together? Did they sit by the window and read while the sun went down? Did Alhaitham usually hold him when they went to sleep? The thought made a thrill run down Kaveh's spine.
"Are you hungry?" Kaveh asked suddenly, eager to fulfill his role as a loving, attentive partner. He made to stand up. "I can prepare something for dinner. I know you've been busy dealing with my accident all afternoon, so let me—"
Alhaitham’s hand shot out, catching Kaveh by the forearm and anchoring him firmly to the divan before he could fully stand.
"You were hit in the head with a piece of ancient masonry three hours ago," Alhaitham said, his voice leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "You are not cooking. Sit down."
Kaveh melted back into the cushions, his chest bursting with affection. He's so protective, he thought dreamily, looking at the firm grip Alhaitham had on his arm before the grey-haired man let go. He acts so stern and aloof on the outside, but every single action is driven by how deeply he cares for my safety.
Alhaitham released his hold on Kaveh’s forearm, though his gaze lingered on the architect for a beat longer than usual. The complete absence of arguments—the surreal lack of sharp-tongued retorts about personal space, bodily autonomy, or municipal rights—was still settling strangely in the room.
"Stay seated," Alhaitham repeated, his voice maintaining its steady, unbothered rhythm. "I will return shortly."
"Take your time," Kaveh said, watching him with an open, fond expression that seemed entirely alien on his face. "Don't rush on my account."
Alhaitham turned, pulled his dark coat tighter around his shoulders, and stepped out into the lingering afternoon heat of Sumeru City. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, leaving Kaveh alone in the quiet expanse of the home.
Kaveh let out a long, slow breath, resting his head back against the plush fabric of the divan. The room moved slightly when he closed his eyes, a gentle reminder of the structural damage his head had taken, but the dizzy spell was far more manageable now. He looked around the living room, taking in every detail with a fresh, albeit completely inaccurate, perspective.
The house was undeniably beautiful. The architecture was classic Sumeru design—high vaulted ceilings, sweeping archways, and intricate tilework along the baseboards—but the interior styling was an undeniable mash of two very different personalities. On one side stood tall, meticulously organized bookshelves filled with dense, dark-bound volumes on linguistics, ancient runoff systems, and political philosophy. On the other, stacks of parchment, stray brass compasses, vivid paint swatches, and half-finished wooden models cluttered the side tables.
We really built a life together here, Kaveh thought, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He gives me space for my art, even if he pretends to complain about the clutter.
He ran a hand through his blonde hair, wincing slightly as his fingers brushed near the small bandage pinned to his scalp. It was frustrating, certainly, not being able to recall the specific milestones of their relationship. He couldn't remember their first kiss, or the moment they decided to live under the same roof, or what Alhaitham looked like when he was genuinely laughing. But the feeling of warmth in his chest was so overwhelming, so unmistakable, that Kaveh felt entirely secure in his conclusion.
I must have worked so hard to win his heart, Kaveh pondered, tracing the pattern of the woven rug beneath his boots. Someone as grounded and logical as Alhaitham wouldn't just let anyone into his space. I need to make sure he knows how much I appreciate him, especially now.
Down in the Grand Bazaar, the late afternoon market was in full swing. The scent of roasted spices, sizzling flatbreads, and fresh floral essences filled the shaded walkways.
Alhaitham walked past the colorful stalls with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his mind steadily evaluating the strange predicament waiting for him back at the house.
The medical facts were clear enough: blunt force trauma resulting in localized retrograde amnesia. The scholar at the Bimarstan had explained that Kaveh’s core memory—his identity, his technical knowledge, his basic language skills—remained intact, while recent personal history had been temporarily obscured by the trauma.
What the scholar had not anticipated was Kaveh's wildly absurd interpretation of their living situation.
Alhaitham paused near a food stall specializing in warm, savory broth, placing an order for a light chicken and herb soup. As the vendor set to work ladling the soup into a brass carrier, Alhaitham reviewed the exact words he had spoken in the clinic.
“You live with me. I cover the majority of our living expenses and rent. You spend most of your evenings in our living room, complaining to me about your work, and I spend most of my time attempting to read while you demand my attention.”
In hindsight, Alhaitham could see the logical path Kaveh’s concussed brain had constructed. Taken literally, without the context of their long-standing academic rivalry, the mountain of debt Kaveh had accumulated over the Palace of Alcazarzaray, or their mutual inability to exist in the same room without arguing over philosophy, the description sounded distinctly domestic.
He thinks we are in a relationship, Alhaitham concluded, paying the vendor and taking the warm container.
The sensible thing to do—the direct, logical action—would be to correct him immediately upon returning. He could lay out the facts: the room contract, the unpaid rent, the endless bickering over shared chores, and the complete absence of romantic involvement.
Yet, as Alhaitham walked back up the winding stone pathways toward their quarter, he hesitated.
For months, his primary complaint regarding Kaveh had been the noise. Kaveh was a storm of dramatic anxiety, constantly stressing over client demands, unpaid bills, artistic integrity, and the emotional burden of the world around him. Their interactions almost always escalated into loud, exhausting debates that disrupted Alhaitham's reading time.
Today, Kaveh had agreed to rest without a single complaint. He had taken his medicine, sat quietly, and expressed genuine concern for Alhaitham’s comfort.
If correcting his misinterpretation immediately results in an outburst of embarrassment, anxiety, and arguments while his brain is still inflamed from a concussion, Alhaitham reasoned, it would actively harm his recovery. It is far more efficient to allow him to remain calm until his physical health stabilizes.
Satisfied with his logic, Alhaitham pushed open the front door.
The click of the latch brought Kaveh out of his thoughts instantly. He sat up straighter on the divan, smoothing down his shirt and offering Alhaitham a warm, welcoming look as the younger man stepped inside, carrying a steaming brass food container.
"You were quick," Kaveh noted, his voice soft and smooth.
"The market was relatively uncrowded," Alhaitham replied, setting the container down on the dining table near the kitchen nook. He retrieved two small ceramic bowls and spoons, efficiently setting the table before looking back at Kaveh. "Can you walk to the table, or do you require assistance?"
"I can walk!" Kaveh said quickly, keen to prove he wasn't completely helpless. He carefully swung his legs off the divan, testing his footing before standing up. The room stayed blessedly still this time, though a dull ache still throbbed behind his eyes. He walked over to the table, taking a seat opposite Alhaitham.
The soup was light, clear, and fragrant with mint and garlic. Kaveh picked up his spoon, taking a careful sip, and let out a soft sigh of appreciation. "This is wonderful. Thank you, Alhaitham."
Alhaitham sat down, unfolding a small napkin. He watched Kaveh closely, searching for any signs of physical distress, but the architect seemed entirely relaxed.
"The healers indicated that you should avoid bright lights for the next forty-eight hours," Alhaitham mentioned, spooning a small portion of broth into his own bowl. "I will draw the heavy drapes before dusk."
"You really think of everything, don't you?" Kaveh said, his eyes practically sparkling with admiration. "I know I probably don't say it enough—or maybe I do, I suppose I wouldn't remember right now—but you really are incredibly thoughtful."
Alhaitham paused with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Thoughtful was not an adjective usually assigned to him, least of all by Kaveh, who typically preferred words like callous, arrogant, or insufferably mechanical.
"I am merely adhering to medical advice," Alhaitham said evenly. "It requires very little effort to draw a curtain."
"It's the thought behind it," Kaveh insisted, reaching across the table to briefly press his fingers over Alhaitham's free hand again. The contact was brief, gentle, and utterly natural. "You care about my comfort. You don't have to minimize it."
Alhaitham looked down at his hand, then back up at Kaveh. "Eat your soup before it cools."
"Alright, alright," Kaveh laughed softly—a bright, melodious sound that felt strangely large in the quiet dining space.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, a quiet that felt profoundly different from the tense silences that usually filled the house. To Kaveh, the silence was comfortable, the easy quiet of two people who didn't need to fill every second with words to feel connected. To Alhaitham, it was a fascinating study in behavioral shift.
Once the bowls were cleared, Kaveh made a move to collect the dishes, but Alhaitham waved him off instantly.
"Sit. I will handle the kitchen."
"Alhaitham, I'm concussed, not broken," Kaveh protested mildly, though there was no real heat behind it. "I can at least wash two bowls."
"The water in the basin is cold, and bending over the sink will increase the intracranial pressure in your skull, aggravating your headache," Alhaitham stated flatly, picking up the tableware. "Sit back down on the divan."
Kaveh blinked, thoroughly outmaneuvered by logic once again. A brilliant flush returned to his cheeks. He's so firm when he wants to take care of me, he thought, his heart doing a ridiculous little flip in his chest.
"Fine," Kaveh murmured, submitting with a soft smile. "I'll go back to the divan."
He walked back over to the living room, settling back into the soft cushions. Outside, the sun was beginning to drop below the horizon, casting long, golden shadows across the floorboards. True to his word, Alhaitham emerged from the kitchen minutes later, walking silently across the room to pull the heavy, embroidered curtains closed, reducing the bright twilight to a soothing, warm dimness.
Alhaitham then walked over to his usual armchair near the reading lamp, picking up a thick volume on ancient ruin mechanics. He lit a small candle on the side table, turning the light away from Kaveh's direction, before sinking into the leather seat.
Kaveh watched him from the divan. The dim light traced the sharp contours of Alhaitham's profile, highlighting the quiet focus in his eyes as he opened his book. It was an image of pure, undisturbed composure.
He's content just being in the same room as me, Kaveh thought, wrapping a throw blanket over his lap. Even with everything going on, he just wants us to be near each other.
Kaveh shifted slightly, pulling the blanket higher up his shoulders. "Alhaitham?"
Alhaitham didn't look up from the page, but his left ear turned slightly in Kaveh’s direction. "What is it?"
"Which room is mine?" Kaveh asked softly. "I... I don't remember where I keep my things."
Alhaitham's gaze slowly drifted over the top of his book. He looked at Kaveh, whose expression was completely innocent, entirely free of guile or double meaning.
In reality, Kaveh’s room was the second bedroom down the hall—the one currently overflowing with drafting paper, discarded sketches, fabric samples, and half-empty paint jars. Alhaitham’s room was the primary bedroom at the end of the corridor, kept immaculately clean and sparse.
However, Kaveh was currently under the absolute impression that they were a committed couple. In Kaveh's mind, asking "which room is mine" was simply asking where his clothes were kept, assuming, naturally, that they shared a bed.
Alhaitham considered his answer carefully.
If he directed Kaveh to the mess of the secondary room, Kaveh might realize the physical separation instantly, prompting an immediate wave of questions that would destroy the peaceful environment required for his recovery. On the other hand, encouraging the misunderstanding to extend into sleeping arrangements carried obvious complications.
"Your belongings are in the room on the left down the hall," Alhaitham said smoothly, choosing the factual route. "However, given your current state, you will likely find it difficult to navigate the clutter in the dark. The divan is equipped with extra bedding in the chest nearby if you prefer to remain here for the night."
Kaveh looked at the large, comfortable divan, then over at Alhaitham. A soft, knowing smile spread across his face.
He's being so considerate, Kaveh thought. He knows I'm tired and dizzy, so he's giving me an easy option instead of making me stumble through the house.
"The divan sounds wonderful," Kaveh agreed softly. "Would you... do you mind helping me set up the bedding?"
Alhaitham set his book face-down on the table, standing up without a word. He walked over to the wooden chest in the corner, unlatching the brass hook and pulling out a thick, quilted blanket and a plush feather pillow. He carried them over, efficiently laying the blanket across the cushions and fluffing the pillow before setting it at the head of the divan.
"There," Alhaitham said, stepping back. "That should prove sufficient."
Kaveh swung his legs up onto the divan, slipping under the warm quilt. The scent of sandalwood and clean linen rose from the fabric—the same scent that clung to Alhaitham. He let out a long, contented sigh, settling his head against the pillow.
Alhaitham stood by the edge of the couch, looking down at him. "Do you require anything else before I return to my reading?"
Kaveh reached out, his hand slipping from beneath the blanket to gently wrap around Alhaitham's wrist. The skin beneath his fingers was warm, a steady pulse beating right beneath the surface.
"No," Kaveh whispered, his eyes fluttering half-shut as exhaustion finally began to win over his concussed mind. "Thank you for taking such good care of me today, Alhaitham. I really am... so happy to be here with you."
Alhaitham looked down at the hand holding his wrist. The grip was loose, devoid of any tension, warm and trusting.
For a long moment, the former Acting Grand Sage said nothing. He didn't pull his hand away, nor did he offer a sharp logical correction. He simply let the quiet stillness of the house settle around them.
"Sleep, Kaveh," Alhaitham murmured softly, his voice dropping an octave into a rare, quiet gentleness. "We will discuss the rest tomorrow."
Kaveh let out a tiny, satisfied hum, his fingers relaxing as he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, completely wrapped in the comforting warmth of a lie he didn't even know he was living.
Alhaitham stood in the dim room for a few moments longer, listening to the steady, rhythmic breathing of the sleeping architect, before quietly retrieving his hand, turning back to his chair, and picking up his book.