Very rarely was Integra ever vulnerable. You never once saw her with a flaw. Not a hair astray, not a wrinkle in her suit. So the sight of her shocked you, when you went to go drop off some files she had requested of you to her office.

At first you didn’t realize she had been asleep. Her head was on the desk, but her cigar was still alight in her hand. You carefully took it, putting it out in her ashtray as to not let it catch fire on other documents. Then your eyes rested on her. Her shoulders softly heaving with every breath she took, her hair splayed against the desk and down her back. The soft sounds of her breathing. You almost couldn’t believe your eyes. How could Sir Integra ever let herself be caught like this?