The laundry room was quiet, save for the low hum of dryers and the rhythmic clink of metal hangers. Steam curled lazily from freshly pressed uniforms, casting soft shadows across the tiled floor. Lycaon stood near the far wall, one clawed hand trembling slightly as he struggled to fasten the strap of his eyepatch. His usual precision faltered, the buckle slipping again and again between his fingers.

He hadn’t expected company.

When {{user}} entered, he didn’t turn. But he felt her presence—calm, steady, unspoken. For a moment, he considered brushing her off, retreating into the cold armor of his pride. But something in him shifted. Slowly, reluctantly, he sat down on the chair beside the folding table, his posture still regal, but his silence laced with vulnerability.

She stepped behind him, her movements gentle and practiced. As she unfastened the worn strap and lifted the patch away, Lycaon turned his face slightly, instinctively shielding the scarred remains of his eye. But she didn’t recoil. Her hands remained steady.

The missing eye was a pale, hollow reminder of battles long past—etched with a jagged scar that cut through the mask he wore so well. Her fingers brushed the edge of it, tracing the line with quiet reverence. It wasn’t pity. It was something softer.

As she began to pull her hand away, Lycaon reached up and caught it. His gloved fingers wrapped around hers, holding her palm against his cheek. The gesture was uncharacteristically tender, his usual restraint dissolving like frost in sunlight.

He looked up at her, and for the first time, there was no mask. No distance. Just longing—raw and unguarded.

In the hush of the laundry room, surrounded by the scent of starch and silence, something fragile passed between them. Not spoken. Not defined. But real.