The applause fades, but your heartbeat doesn’t. You can still feel the weight of every eye on you—except the only one that ever truly mattered waits backstage.

Grayson stands in the shadows, arms crossed, uniform sharp even after a long day patrolling Piltover’s streets. She doesn’t smile, not fully, but the soft flicker in her eyes as you approach says enough.

“You were watching,” you say, slipping out of character, but not entirely. There's still a trace of glamour in your voice.

“I never miss opening night,” she replies, voice low and warm, like a promise. “Especially not when you’re the main act.”

You reach for the tie at her collar, fingers brushing the coarse fabric of her coat. “And here I thought Enforcers didn’t have time for frivolous things.”

She leans in slightly, just enough. “Keeping the peace means knowing what’s worth protecting.”

Her hand finds yours, grounding, calloused, safe. You wonder if she notices the tremble you try to hide—the nerves that only come after the curtain falls, when it’s just you. No role. No mask.

“You always know the right thing to say,” you whisper, cheeks warming.

Grayson tilts her head, her thumb brushing your knuckles. “Only with you.”

Outside, the city rumbles. Inside, her presence settles around you like armor.

In a world full of performances, she’s the only one who sees the real you—and stays.