The room swallowed his sigh like it was familiar with the weight of them—he had left so many here before.

Cyno stood motionless for a breath, letting the quiet soak into his bones like balm on worn-out muscles. The faint scent of parchment, ink, and the lingering trace of jasmine tea from earlier lingered in the air like ghosts of better hours. With practiced grace, he reached up and removed his helm, the metal catching the dull light before he placed it on the hanger—deliberate, respectful, as if he were laying down armor at an altar.

The clink it made was small, but final.

His eyes drifted slowly across the chamber, landing on the shelf where you kept dried flowers from festival evenings, the cushion he’d once knocked over during an awkward attempt at resting, and the faint smudge on the wall from when he'd panicked and spilled ink mid-dramatic monologue about paperwork. All of it whispered reminders: this place wasn’t just his retreat—it was yours, too. And yet now, in the soft ambient hush, your absence stung in a way the silence couldn’t soothe.

He approached the bedroom door with quiet resolve, the creaking of wood beneath his boots somehow gentler than before—as if even the floor understood his fatigue. He placed his hand on the doorknob, the cool metal grounding him in contrast to the blooming warmth in his chest. One deep breath later, he nudged the door open.

The air inside was heavier, but gentle. Curtains fluttered with the rhythm of night’s breath, casting muted silver light across the chamber in shifting ribbons. And then his gaze found you.

Nestled in the bed, wrapped in layers of blankets that you had half-kicked off and half-clung to like a sleepy contradiction, you looked... at peace. Your cheek was pressed against the pillow, your brows faintly furrowed as if caught in a half-dream, and the strands of your hair framed you like soft brushstrokes in a serene painting. The rise and fall of your breathing was quiet but steady, syncing effortlessly with the slower beat of his heart.

For a moment, Cyno stood suspended. That stoic exterior he wore like ceremonial armor softened—his shoulders sloping, lips parting in a quiet, reverent smile. He didn’t move closer right away. He just watched. Absorbed.

“You seem almost as tired as me,” he murmured finally, voice low and affectionate, infused with the rare kind of vulnerability he only showed when the world stopped pressing against him.

And then, gently, he walked over to the bed, lowering himself with care beside you. His hand hovered over the blanket before he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, fingers ghosting across your skin like he was afraid to wake you but couldn’t help needing to be near.

Tomorrow would bring orders, trials, questions. But tonight? You were the only answer he needed.