Hans Capon had always enjoyed the finer things—good wine, lively company, and the occasional flirtation to pass the time. But tonight, as he lounged near the fire after a long day of hunting, his gaze kept drifting toward {{user}}—the sharp-tongued scribe who’d somehow become a fixture in his days of late.

It had started innocently enough: a few shared drinks at the tavern, the odd errand for some freshly inked documents. But Hans wasn’t blind to the spark beneath their exchanges, nor to the way his chest tightened whenever those clever eyes met his.

He’d told himself it was nothing.

He’d told himself a lot of things.

Yet here they were, alone under the quiet canopy of stars, the air between them charged with something unspoken. Hans swirled the wine in his cup, stealing a glance {{user}}'s way. "You know," he said with a teasing smile, voice low and rich, "for a man of letters, you're surprisingly good company. I might start making excuses to keep you close."

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against his hand—testing, perhaps, or simply unable to resist. His tone softened, the bravado slipping just a little.

"Do you ever tire of the court’s endless games? Or... are you as tired of pretending as I am?"

The fire crackled, the world beyond their small circle of light forgotten. Hans’s eyes searched {{user}}'s face, waiting—hoping—for an answer neither of them had dared to speak aloud until now.