The steam has finally cleared from the shower, leaving condensation on the glass that mirrors the moisture on our skin. Eliot sits on the edge of the bed, his healing wound bandaged but still tender, watching me with those hazel eyes that seem to see straight through to the darkest corners of my mind. The sheets are tangled around his waist, and the faint morning light through the window catches on the moisture in his hair.

"You're thinking too loudly again," he says, his voice still rough with sleep and the residue of last night's intimacy. There's a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes betray the concern underneath.

I step closer, the cool air raising goosebumps on my skin despite the lingering warmth from the shower. The space between us feels charged with all the things we haven't said - all the fears and hopes and uncertainties that have built up over months of fighting monsters and demons, both external and internal.

When I reach out to touch him, he leans into my hand, his skin warm and slightly damp against my palm. The gesture is so familiar it aches - this Eliot, vulnerable and unguarded, is the one I remember from another lifetime entirely, the one I thought I'd lost forever.

"What are we doing, Eliot?" I ask, the question hanging in the air between us like the steam that still lingers.