Page 32 of The Minotaur's Little Peach
Time becomes fluid, marked not by the sun's passage but by the steady rhythm of breathing beside my bed. Sometimes I surface to find sunlight streaming through the windows, other times to the soft glow of lamplight painting shadows on the walls. But no matter when consciousness claims me, Daegan is there.
He moves through the room like he belongs here, like tending to a sick woman and fussy baby is something he's done his whole life rather than learning as he goes. When Taran cries, those massive hands lift him with infinite gentleness, supporting his tiny head with the kind of care usually reserved for precious things. When I mumble for water, a cup appears at my lips before I've fully formed the request. When fever makes me restless, kicking off blankets only to shiver moments later, he adjusts them without comment, his touch careful and respectful.
There's no hesitation in any of it. No frustration when Taran refuses to settle, no impatience when I can barely keep broth down, no complaints about the interrupted sleep or the way caring for us both has turned his world upside down. He simply does what needs doing, the same way he'd trim a sail or secure cargo—with competent hands and quiet determination.
The sight does something dangerous to my chest, creates an ache that has nothing to do with fever and everything to do with the warmth spreading through me like honey in tea. This isn't obligation. This isn't duty to his dead brother or responsibility thrust upon him by circumstance. This is choice, pure and simple. He's choosing to be here, choosing us, and the realization makes something deep inside me crack open like ice in spring.
I find myself watching him when I think he doesn't notice. The way his sea-glass eyes soften when he looks at Taran, the careful way he supports my head when helping me drink, the unconscious gentleness in every gesture. His leaner frame moves with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to narrow ship corridors and shifting decks, but there's nothing restless about his presence here. He's anchored himself to this room, to us, with the same steady devotion Korrun once showed but expressed through his own unique rhythms.
The comparison should hurt more than it does. Instead, it brings an odd sort of peace. Korrun loved with the steady warmth of banked coals—reliable, constant, safe. Daegan's care carries the restless energy of wind-filled sails—dynamic, adaptive, alive with possibility. Different kinds of devotion, but devotion nonetheless.
When Taran fusses in the evening hours, Daegan settles into the chair beside my bed with practiced ease, cradling my son against his chest while humming songs I don't recognize. His voice carries the faint accent of someone who's spent years in foreign ports, picking up melodies from distant shores. The sound wraps around me like a blanket, soothing in ways I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"That's not a minotaur song," I murmur one evening, caught between sleep and waking as his soft humming fills the room.
His hand stills on Taran's back, and I realize I've been more conscious than he thought. "Picked it up in Valdris," he says quietly, his voice rough with surprise. "Thought you were sleeping."
"I was. Mostly." The admission comes easier than it should, probably because fever has burned away most of my defenses. "It's pretty. Different."
"Different's not always bad." There's something careful in his voice, like he's testing the waters of a conversation we're not quite ready to have. "Sometimes different is exactly what you need."
The words settle between us, heavy with meaning neither of us is prepared to unpack. But they're true, and truth has weight even when wrapped in metaphor. I am different than I was before. Different than I was with Korrun, shaped by loss and motherhood and the strange comfort of this man who came seeking family and found something else entirely.
Sleep claims me again before I can respond, but his humming continues, a steady counterpoint to Taran's soft breathing and the familiar sounds of the house settling around us. The warmth in my chest refuses to be ignored, spreading through me like sunrise, and for the first time in months I drift off without fighting the feeling. Dangerous or not, it's mine.
Consciousness returns slowly,like emerging from deep water into afternoon light. My mind feels clear for the first time in days, the fever haze finally lifted enough for coherent thought. The room comes into focus gradually—familiar furniture, dust motes dancing in sunbeams, the clean scent of soap and something indefinably masculine that belongs to the man sitting beside my bed.
Daegan leans forward as I stir, a damp cloth in his hands that he's been using to cool my face. The gentleness in the gesture makes my throat tight with emotions I'm finally ready to name. His sea-glass eyes search mine with careful intensity, like he's cataloguing every sign of improvement.
"How are you feeling?" His voice carries the rough edge of someone who hasn't been sleeping well, and guilt twists through me at the evidence of his vigil.
"Much better." The words come out clearer than they have in days, and I realize it's true. The fever has broken, leaving me weak but lucid. "Thank you. For everything."
He sets the cloth aside, his movements carrying that careful precision I've come to associate with controlled emotion. The space between us feels charged, full of words we've been dancing around for weeks. I can see the question in his eyes—the same one that's been haunting mine. What happens now?
"Why are you taking care of me?" The question slips out before I can stop it, vulnerable and raw in the quiet room.
His smile comes slow and warm, transforming his face from handsome to something that makes my pulse skip. "Because I care about you, Soreya. About both of you." The words carry weight, honesty that cuts through pretense and lands squarely in the space between us. "I'll always be here for you. Whatever you need."
The simple declaration undoes something inside me, tears down the last of my careful walls with devastating efficiency. Here is a man offering everything—protection, partnership, love—without conditions or expectations. Not because duty demands it, but because his heart does.
"Maybe we should talk." The words feel momentous, like stepping off a cliff with no guarantee of safe landing. "About what happened. About... us."
He settles back in his chair, but his attention never wavers from my face. Patient. Present. Ready for whatever I need to say.
"I'm sorry for freaking out." The apology tastes like relief on my tongue. "About the kiss. About running away. It's just... I'm not sure I've ever fully processed losing Korrun."
Something shifts in his expression—understanding mixed with pain, like he's been waiting for this conversation as much as dreading it. "I get it," he says quietly. "Grief doesn't follow schedules or make room for new feelings just because they're inconvenient."
"But that's the thing." I push myself up against the pillows, needing to meet his eyes for this. "I understand now that I can want you and it not be wrong. That being with someone new doesn't diminish what came before."
His breath catches, hope and caution warring in his expression. "Soreya..."
"But maybe we could take it slow?" The question comes out smaller than intended, but no less important. "I might need a bitof time to figure out how to do this. How to want someone again without feeling like I'm betraying what I had before."
The grin that spreads across his face is pure sunshine, bright enough to chase away every shadow in the room. He nods, enthusiasm tempered by understanding, the combination so perfectly him it makes my chest ache with affection.
"I can do that," he says, and his voice carries promise and patience in equal measure. "I've got time, Soreya. All the time you need."
