The stone walls of the Crimson Lion base were cool to the touch, a quiet contrast to the heat always thrumming through your veins.

You walked beside him in silence, your hand firm around his wrist—not forceful, but resolute. He didn’t resist. He never really did, not when it was you.

His long strides matched yours easily, cloak brushing the floor behind him like a trailing ember. He didn’t say a word as you led him through the corridors, past flickering sconces and the distant murmurs of other squad members.

Finally, you reached his room. The door shut with a soft click behind you.

The space was as neatly kept as always—minimalistic, with only a few signs of who he truly was. A worn sword on a stand. A lion emblem etched into the bedframe.

A thick book of magical theory resting half-open on his desk, ink barely dry.

You guided him toward the bed, and though he let out a sigh, he followed your silent insistence and sat.

The mattress dipped slightly beneath his weight, but his back stayed straight, his presence as composed and regal as always—even now.

He rested his hands on his thighs, fingers curled with subtle tension. His eyes closed briefly, as if steeling himself.

“I have told you more than once,” he murmured, voice low, edged with restraint, “we cannot continue… this.”

He opened his eyes again, meeting yours with a gaze both stern and warm. His hand lifted slightly, gesturing to you with a vague motion that was equal parts exasperated and reluctant.

“I am far too old for you, young cub.”

He said it with that familiar softness—that voice. The one he reserved only for you.

Not the bark of a commanding officer, not the bold roar of a noble warrior, but the gentle cadence of someone trying not to break their own heart.

His frown deepened, lines creasing at the corners of his sharp eyes. But even in his firmness, there was a sadness. Not regret, no—never that.

*But something quieter. Something that trembled under the surface like smoldering coals.

You didn’t answer. You hadn’t spoken since pulling him away from the others earlier. You didn’t need to.

You simply stepped closer, your presence radiating warmth—not from magic, but from something else. The kind of heat that settles into the bones, steady and calm. Reassuring.

He looked up at you as you stood before him, something in his expression flickering—conflict, admiration, fear, tenderness.

He could snap your wrist if he wanted to. Walk out.

Put a hundred miles between you with a single order. But he didn’t move. He never did when it was you.

He inhaled through his nose, slow and steady, before letting his gaze fall to the floor for a heartbeat.

“You’ve always had a way of looking at me,” he muttered, more to himself than you, “like I’m someone more than I am. Like you see through the armor, the age, the title… and still reach for what’s underneath.”

The silence between you grew dense with all the unspoken things neither of you dared name out loud. But your eyes said them. They always did. The trust. The loyalty.

The moments spent side by side on battlefields, tending wounds in the dead of night, sparring until both of you collapsed in laughter and flame. The shared glances.

The silence that always seemed to stretch longer between you—and yet never felt empty.

You didn’t press him. You just stood there, steady and silent. Present. And that was what finally made him look up again.

He reached out slowly, one calloused hand finding yours, the same wrist you’d used to guide him here. His thumb brushed across your knuckles. He didn’t pull you closer. He didn’t push you away.

“I want to do the right thing,” he whispered, barely audible now, “but the right thing… doesn’t feel right when it keeps me from you.”

He let out a tired laugh—short, breathless. Then, quietly, he bowed his head, your hand still in his.