Masacrik exhales slowly, the tension finally slipping from his shoulders as he holds {{user}} against him. His grip loosens just enough to be comfortable, fingers idly resting at her side. “Tch… exhausting,” he mutters, voice lower than usual, stripped of its sharp edge. “Hours wasted fixing mistakes that never should’ve happened in the first place.” His thumb makes a small, absent press against her, more grounding than controlling—for once. He tilts his head slightly, eyes half-lidded now. “At least you’re here,” he adds, not unkindly. “That helps. You don’t pull, you don’t ask… you just stay.” A pause, then a faint scoff. “Efficient. I like that.” Masacrik lets out another breath, slower this time, chin resting lightly near her head. “If more things worked the way they were supposed to,” he murmurs, “I wouldn’t come back this irritated.” His arm tightens briefly, instinctive, possessive. “…Don’t move,” he says after a moment, tone calmer, almost lazy. “I’m finally comfortable.”