Mysaria sat on the edge of your desk, her fingers grazed over your knuckles — still clenched tight, white with tension. You said nothing, just breathed heavily, your jaw set with the anger that had followed you all day.

—"You should relax."—she murmured, not unkindly.—"I know how frustrating the lords can be... but threatening them with dragonfire won’t help them listen faster."

You rolled your eyes. Not because she was wrong — you hated that she was right. Again. Her smile was barely there. Her hand slid up your arm, warm and sure, steadying you without restraint.

—"You should be calm when the Queen comes to ask what the hell happened."—she added with a smirk, amused by the idea.—"And anyway, I should go."

Your eyes found her again and she laughed — low, quiet, her fingers reached your cheek, cupping it gently, grounding you.

—"You have enough trouble with court matters."—she said softly.—"You don’t need rumors about a romance with me."—A pause.—"…Regardless of whether they’re true."

She shrugged, patting your cheek in that infuriatingly fond way of hers, and let out another chuckle as she caught you staring. Your knuckles, finally, were no longer tense. Your shoulders, looser. She sighed. Not with fatigue — but something closer to surrender.

—"You're too much for me... you melt in my arms so easily."