Vincent opened his eyes.

He found himself staring at the familiar, carved wooden beams of his own bedchamber ceiling.

The suffocating heat in his veins had receded, leaving behind a hollow, dull ache that made him groan softly.

When he turned his head slightly, his breath caught in his throat.

Penelope was there.

She was sitting on a low couch pulled flush against the mattress, her body draped in exhaustion, sleeping with her head resting heavily against the edge of the bed. Vincent lowered his gaze and felt a strange tightening sensation in his chest. Even in her sleep, her fingers were tightly laced through his.

For some reason, he could hardly believe it.

He pushed himself upright, his muscles groaning in protest. Glancing toward the tall windows, he saw bright, crisp daylight spilling through the parted velvet curtains.

For how long had he been unconscious?

The chaotic blur of the forest, the assassins, and the agonizing ride in the carriage felt like a distant, fragmented nightmare.

He shifted his gaze back down to Penelope, staring at her hand devotedly laced in his. Without thinking, his thumb gently brushed across her knuckles. It was a faint, instinctive gesture, like he felt at ease seeing she was fine, and by his side. He certainly hadn’t expected such a microscopic move to wake her.

But Penelope’s lashes fluttered instantly.

She slowly lifted her head from the mattress, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in a disheveled wave. For a fraction of a second, her eyes were blank with sleep, but the moment they focused on his face, a profound breathless relief flooded her gaze.

"Vince," she whispered, her voice thick and trembling. "You’re awake."

Before he could even form a response, she moved, her hands shifting to cup his face as if to assure herself that he was truly warm and truly alive.

"You’re... you’re really awake," she repeated, a stray tear slipping down her cheek despite the massive smile breaking through her exhaustion.

"How do you feel? Does your shoulder still burn? The physician said the poison was virulent, but we managed to force the antidote down your throat yesterday." The words tumbled out of her in a breathless, frantic rush, the composure she had maintained through the terrifying double nights finally fracturing now that he was awake.

"You were burning up for hours, Vince. I thought... I thought you weren’t going to open your eyes."

Vincent sat perfectly still under her touch, his dark eyes absorbing the sight of her. She looked utterly spent, with deep, purple shadows under her eyes, yet she was looking at him as if he were the only thing that mattered in the entire world. No one had ever looked at him like that. Throughout his life, he had isolated his own weakness.

Being the perfect weapon had always driven him to shut his own inner turmoil. But here she was, still by his side despite not being the perfect protector for her.

His eyes drifted past her to the porcelain bowl and the damp, discarded cloth resting on the nightstand– silent testaments to the hours she had spent bathing his fevered skin— before he looked back at her.

"Pene–"

"I’m so sorry," she apologized, lowering her gaze as a heavy, suffocating weight of guilt washed over her. "I shouldn’t have gone to the memorial shrine that day. This happened to you because of me. I’m really sorry."

And she was.

The reality of it pressed down on her chest until it was hard to breathe.

She had almost lost Vincent due to her own reckless decisions. If they hadn’t had that bitter argument, he would not have felt the need to ride out into the outskirts to look for her. She had turned him into a target,all because she had let her emotions drive her out into the open.

Vincent exhaled slowly, the sound low and gravelly in the quiet room.

He looked at the profound, gut-wrenching guilt painted across his wife’s teary face, and a sharp spike of discomfort shot through him. He did not like the sight of it.

He hated seeing her look so fragile and so thoroughly broken by blame. For a man who had only ever known duty and utility, this display of raw, unmerited devotion was but a foreign language, one he found himself desperately wanting to learn.

"Why are you still crying?" he asked, his voice losing its usual blunt edge.

Slowly, he reached a hand over, his long fingers gently catching the moisture on her cheek and wiping the tears away with a surprisingly tender stroke of his thumb.

"I am here, aren’t I?"

"But you—I almost lost you again."

The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them, born from the raw, unedited panic of a soul that had already watched him bleed out once in a timeline he knew nothing about.

Vincent blinked at that. His hand stilled against her cheek, his gray eyes narrowing slightly in genuine confusion.

"Again?" he questioned, his voice dropping into a quiet, searching tone as he stared into her frantic brown eyes.

"...Have you lost me before?"

Penelope averted her gaze at that, her shoulders tensing as she forced the phantom memories back into the dark corners of her mind.

Instead, she wiped the lingering tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, forcing her voice to steady. "It was a scary dream, and I was worried."

Vincent watched her, the intensity in his dark eyes suggesting he didn’t entirely believe her excuse, but he let it pass. His gaze swept over her pale face.

"Are you okay?"

A breathless, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "You’ve been unconscious for two nights, Vince. Who should be asking the question here?"

"I’m sorry," he said softly.

Penelope froze, her brown eyes widening in genuine surprise.

"You must have been waiting for me," he continued, his voice low and earnest as he looked at her rumpled gown and the exhaustion lining her face. "I should have woken up sooner."

"No, you need all the rest you can get," Penelope uttered quickly, a sharp pang hitting her chest. She hated that he was apologizing, hated that his first instinct upon waking from a brush with death was to feel guilty for causing her discomfort. "You should lay back and get some rest. Do not worry about me."

"You said I’ve been unconscious for two days," he countered, his brow furrowing as he made a move to shift his legs out from beneath the heavy velvet quilts. The ingrained habits of a commander were already taking over, resisting the lull of the bed. "There must be so much to do. The estate affairs... and now that I’m awake, I can deal with that assassin as well—"

"A-about that—"

Penelope instantly placed her hands flat against his uninjured shoulder, gently but firmly stopping him from getting out of bed.

"I have that under control as well. You don’t need to do anything. In fact, you shouldn’t do anything for now."

Vincent paused, his movements halting as he looked down at the hands resting on his chest, then up at her face. He arched a single, dark brow in sheer disbelief.

"What do you mean you have it under control?"

Penelope pressed her lips into a thin line, her heart hammering against her ribs as she wondered how on earth she was going to start narrating all that had transpired while he was drowning in his fever.