Silco sat at the head of the table, his chair slightly reclined, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, the other resting on the surface before him. The room was dimly lit, the greenish glow from a nearby chemical lamp casting long shadows over the grimy walls. The usual players were present, each of them speaking in turns—reports on shimmer distribution, Piltover’s meddling, and the occasional petty squabble over territory. Silco, however, wasn’t entirely focused on them.

It started innocently enough, a faint graze against the side of his boot. He dismissed it as accidental—a careless shift of feet under the table. But then it happened again, this time deliberate, slow. His sharp green eye flicked downward briefly, then up again, locking on you where you sat a few seats down, feigning interest in Sevika's droning report.

You didn’t even flinch under his scrutiny. Instead, there was the faintest twitch of a smile pulling at your lips.

The others in the room continued talking, oblivious to the subtle dance playing out under the table. Silco’s jaw tightened as your foot slid higher, the fabric of his tailored trousers betraying the heat of your touch as it grazed against his calf, his knee—higher still.

A low, humorless chuckle escaped his lips, interrupting the discussion mid-sentence. It wasn’t mirth; it was a warning. All eyes turned to him, confusion flickering across their faces. He leaned forward slightly, his scarred eye catching the dim light, making the reddish veins around it pulse eerily.

“Forgive me,” he said coolly, his voice like gravel dragged through honey, “I was simply marveling at how easily some people… lose focus.”

And that thought—just that thought—made him shift, making sure you could feel his leg pressing back against yours. His eyes met yours briefly, cold and controlled, but with a glint of warning buried beneath them.

Push me more, his glare said, and you’ll regret it.