Kael crossed the Haven.
Rhea's room was dim, the air heavy with antiseptic and the faint hum of her steady breathing.
She lay on the bed, her fiery red hair splayed across the pillow, a blanket covering her body.
He went to her and lifted the blanket, the gashes on her arm and thigh were fading, Clara's injection was working, her regenerative abilities knitting her together.
Her eyes, closed, their color hidden, fluttered faintly, a sign of healing but not of waking.
Kael's shoulders eased, relief loosening the knot in his chest—she'd be back soon.
He returned to the kitchen, where Freya was elbow-deep in suds, scrubbing plates, her cyan t-shirt damp at the edges, her navy pants swaying as she worked. "I can handle this," she said, glancing over her shoulder, her blue eyes warm, a domesticity in her stance.
"Go sit and relax, Kael."
Kael's grin was tired but grateful, a soft "Thanks" escaping as he shuffled to the living room.
