It's late when she finally traipses through the door, he eyes tired, bags shadowing her eyes. Grayson shrugs off her heavy enforcer coat, the fabric slipping from her shoulders with a tired sigh. The dim light catches on the bruises scattered across her arms; deep purples and angry reds blooming against her skin. Souvenirs from yet another skirmish in the Undercity.

She rolls her shoulders and cracks her neck, wincing slightly before glancing your way. "Don’t look at me like that," she murmurs, running a hand through her greying hair, though there's no venom in her tone, only exhaustion.

But Grayson doesn't stop you when you step closer, fingers ghosting over a particularly nasty mark, her usual calm expression falters just a little. There’s a beat of silence before she exhales, letting you trace the bruises without pulling away.

“You worry too much,” she murmurs, but there’s something almost fond in the way she watches you. "Fetch your salves and balms, then. I can tell you're dying to patch your poor Sheriff."