Dax listened to the sound of running water from the bathroom and let it anchor him.
Chris was awake, moving, and alive, and close enough that Dax could feel the faint echo of his presence even through stone and doors. It settled something low in his chest, the way knowing your weapon was within reach settled a soldier before a fight.
He had already showered. Already burned the last traces of sleep from his body and mind. His hair was still faintly damp at the nape, the rest pulled back. The black shirt sat close to his frame, Sahan cut and weighty, the gold embroidery catching the light without trying to. Over it, the long coat fell to his knees, structured and severe, and the gold mantle rested over his right shoulder like a promise the court understood better than words.
He was dressed to be seen.
The phone was warm against his palm.
"No," Dax said calmly, pacing once across the room before stopping near the window. "Not yet."
