Cailan was left alone again as soon as they got home, shut away in his room and told to read. His eyes moved mechanically across the pages of a book, but the words might as well have been in a foreign language for all the sense they made to him. His mind, usually sharp and eager to learn, was clouded by an all-consuming need that clawed at his insides.

How long could he endure this isolation? Could his body, his very being, adapt to this deprivation? He had always understood touch to be an absolute need for a mage. It was something a master could take away briefly as punishment, but not something that would ever be denied to them permanently—no more than a master would permanently deny food.

The gnawing emptiness in his stomach went unnoticed as mealtime passed. Physical hunger paled in comparison to the desperate craving for contact that consumed him. Cailan curled into himself on the bed, his knees drawn tightly to his chest. His arms wrapped around his body in a poor imitation of an embrace.

With trembling fingers, he stroked his own hair, trying to imagine it was someone else's touch—Liam's touch. It did nothing to soothe the ache within him, to bring his energy back into balance. Yet he couldn't stop, his hand moving mechanically, again and again, in a futile attempt to fill the void.

The soft rap of knuckles on wood barely registered in Cailan's touch-starved mind. The creak of the door opening, the whisper of footsteps against the floorboards—all of it blurred into the background of his desperate need. It wasn't until Liam's presence loomed over him, a shadow cutting through the dim light of the room, that Cailan's awareness snapped back into focus.

His body screamed at him to move, to show proper respect, but his limbs felt leaden, unresponsive. He remained curled up, his own arms a poor substitute for the embrace he craved.

Then, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, Liam's hand reached out. His palm pressed against Cailan's forehead, cool against feverish skin. The contact sent a jolt through Cailan's system, electric and vital.

In a blur of motion Cailan couldn't quite track, he found himself latched onto Liam's arm. His fingers dug into the fabric of Liam's sleeve, clinging with a desperate strength he hadn’t known he possessed. When Liam tried to pull away, panic surged through Cailan. He tightened his grip, every fibre of his being screaming not to let go.

A small, rational part of Cailan's mind knew this was wrong. He was overstepping, breaking rules, inviting punishment. But the primal need for touch overwhelmed everything else. He needed this contact like he needed air to breathe.

"Cailan, what’s wrong?" Liam's voice finally penetrated the fog in Cailan's mind. The words seemed to echo, and Cailan realised with a jolt that Liam had been repeating this question, his tone growing more urgent with each iteration.

Cailan's eyes locked onto Liam's. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. His voice, when he found it, was a ragged whisper. "I'm sorry, sir. I need it."

"Calm down," Liam said, his voice low and steady. The command washed over Cailan, but did little to quell the storm raging within him. "What do you need?"

Cailan's throat felt dry, his voice coming out as a rasp. "I need you to touch me, sir."

Liam's body went rigid, his muscles tensing under Cailan's grip as he tried to pull away, but Cailan's fingers held fast. Liam stopped struggling, his eyes widening as he reassessed the situation. "Touch you? Like...?" 

"Like anything, sir," Cailan pleaded, each word feeling like it was being torn from his chest. "Please, please just touch me."

Liam's expression shifted, realisation dawning in his eyes. "You mean like..." Slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal, Liam extended his free hand. His fingers hovered for a moment before gently brushing over the top of Cailan's hair.

"Yes," Cailan sobbed out as he pressed back against the hand, making the touch firmer.

Liam slowly lowered himself to his knees beside the bed. His hand continued its gentle ministrations, fingers carding through Cailan's hair in a soothing rhythm. The tension in Liam's other arm, still held firmly in Cailan's grasp, gradually eased. 

"I had heard it said that mages need touch," Liam said. "But I didn't think it was meant so literally. I thought they were just trained to desire physical contact, but you actually seem ill."

Cailan rocked his head from side to side in a shake. "It's all of us, from birth. Our energy gets out of balance, and it can only be corrected with physical contact. That's why isolation is the perfect punishment, sir."

Liam's hand paused momentarily in its stroking. "You don't have to call me sir.”

"Sorry," Cailan murmured.

"That's okay.” Liam’s hand resumed its gentle petting, fingers working through a small tangle in Cailan's hair with careful attention.

As Liam's fingers continued their gentle exploration, Cailan’s desperate grip on Liam's other hand gradually loosened. Cailan's breathing had slowed, the frantic edge of his earlier panic smoothing into something calmer. The room felt warmer somehow, as if Liam's touch had thawed an invisible chill.

"Am I in a lot of trouble now?" Cailan asked, his voice small and hesitant.

"No."

"I should be," Cailan murmured, more to himself than to Liam.

Liam's hand stilled for a moment, resting warm and heavy on Cailan's head. "You don't get to decide that," he said, his voice carrying a gentle admonishment. There was no anger in his tone, only a quiet authority.

A small sigh escaped Cailan's lips, part relief and part lingering anxiety. He shifted slightly, tilting his head to expose the delicate skin behind his ear. Liam's fingers responded instinctively, brushing the silky strands away from Cailan's face.

"Thank you, Liam."

"You're welcome, Cailan."