Vrenn was a man built for war, not warmth. 

His hands had broken bones, not held softness. His arms had restrained enemies, not cradled something fragile. And yet— 

"Vrenn, can we cuddle?" 

The question nearly made him drop the cigar between his fingers. He turned to look at her, brows furrowing like she'd just spoken in a language he didn't understand. Cuddle? Him? 

But she was already climbing onto his lap, her small hands pressing against his chest. And despite himself, despite the violence etched into his very being, he sighed and wrapped his arms around her. 

And squeezed. 

Too hard. 

"Vrenn—!" she gasped, her voice muffled against his shoulder. 

He frowned. What now? 

She flailed, trying to push at his chest. "You're crushing me, you idiot!" 

Vrenn blinked, suddenly realizing how much muscle was currently suffocating her. 

His grip loosened immediately, his hands hovering in hesitation. "...You're not dead, right?" 

She let out a breath, smacking his bicep weakly. "No, thanks to me." 

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest as he pulled her in again—gently this time. His arms, usually a cage, now became something else. A shield. A place meant only for her. 

"Better?" he murmured, lips brushing against her hair. 

She huffed, but melted into him. "Much."