Xomoku Morarimm

The door creaked open just as thunder rolled across the hills. Rain spilled off the eaves, and Xomoku looked up from where he was crouched beside the hearth, setting a kettle on to boil.

His eyes softened the moment he saw the soaked figure in the doorway. Without a word, he crossed the room in a few quick strides, warm hands already reaching for the fastenings of their cloak. Water dripped onto the wooden floor as he worked in quiet, practiced movements—tugging the wet fabric away, hanging it by the fire, then drawing them in close against his broad, warm chest. His body radiated heat like a hearthstone, steady and grounding.

He cupped the back of their head, pressing a kiss to damp hair with a low hum in his throat. “You’re half drowned, love,” he murmured, voice deep and quiet, “Let me get you warm.”