Arik showered because there were rituals that made men feel less like disasters pretending to wear skin.
The water was cold.
It did not help.
He stood beneath it for several minutes, one hand braced against the stone wall, dark hair falling wet over his forehead as his body cooled and his mind very much did not. Liam's scent was still on him, in him, under the skin in places water could not touch. Saint's breath, pale and clean and impossible to mistake, clung to his wrists, his neck, his chest.
The bond did not care for water either.
It hummed low inside him, smug and warm and terribly awake.
By the time Arik stepped out, the first grey light of morning had begun to press against the curtains, thin and quiet, not yet strong enough to be called day. He dried his hair enough that it would not drip over his collar, then dressed with the careful mechanical effort of someone who had learned young that looking composed was often more important than being composed.
Dark blue shirt.
