Ragnar watched her for a long time, his heart uncomfortably full. She looked different like this, unguarded and soft. Like a painting come to life, all light strokes and soft edges.
He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek that had come loose from her bun, his voice a low murmur meant only for the dark.
"You're going to be the death of me, Circe."
And for once, he wasn't entirely sure he minded.
Ragnar lingered in the quiet room long after Circe had drifted into sleep. The soft glow of the lamp bathed her features in golden light, casting delicate shadows that softened the sharp lines so often etched into her face when she was awake.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, there was no edge to her expression, no veil of suspicion drawn across her eyes, no tension coiled in her jaw, only the unguarded serenity of slumber.
A faint smile curved her lips as she slept, the kind that vanished too quickly in the daylight, especially when she was around him.
