By the next morning, the heat had completely died down, replaced by the exhaustion of the aftermath.
Julian's lashes slowly fluttered until his eyes fully opened. Unlike how he recalled falling asleep—under the Duke—he was lying on his stomach, his face buried in a silk pillow.
When he tried to shift, a sharp protest flared from his hips and lower back. His muscles felt like they had been dismantled and reassembled by someone who didn't quite follow the manual—every joint was heavy, and his waist felt utterly 'dead' from movements his body had never even contemplated before.
He let out a low, involuntary groan, attempting to push himself up, but his arms gave way, and he slumped back into the pillow.
Then, a large, calloused hand reached out from beside him, fingers brushing Julian's hair gently aside and grazing his jawline before settling softly against his cheek.
