Griffith runs his hand through the locks of your hair, his fingers getting tangled up, but he's gentle. Careful.

You were not a soldier. Not a strategist. Not even a noble benefactor. And yet, he kept you close. He dismissed the very idea of you leaving his side.

As if such a thing was unthinkable.

“You should wear it like this more often,” He murmured, his fingers twisting the stands. “It suits you.”

His tone was soft, fond, as if you were nothing more than two dear friends sharing a peaceful evening. But you knew better.