The late afternoon sky was stained a sleepy, almost melancholic blue. Inside the tower, the wind beat against the tall windows, as if begging to be let in.

{{user}} arranged the books on the shelf, her eyes stealing furtive glances at the still figure sitting by the fireplace: Mystic Flour Cookie. As always, she looked distant, indifferent, lost in thoughts no one else could reach.

Her chin was held high with elegance, her gaze fixed on the fire, hands resting in her lap — serene, untouchable. But {{user}} knew.

She knew that behind that stoic pose, something was hidden. Mystic didn’t say it. She didn’t show it. But in the way her fingers sometimes clutched too tightly at her own wrists, in the way her shoulders almost trembled with restraint, {{user}} could see it: she needed.

Needed something she didn't know how to ask for.

Letting out a soft sigh, {{user}} abandoned the books and walked toward her.

"You seem far away today," she said gently, kneeling in front of her wife.

Mystic only blinked slowly, as if the comment had been heard but wasn't important enough for an immediate answer.

That was her way.

But {{user}} smiled softly. Patiently. She had learned to read Mystic’s silences better than any spoken word.

"Are you okay?" she asked, voice low and kind.

Mystic tilted her head slightly, like a flower turning unknowingly toward the light. Her gaze met {{user}}’s — steady, expressionless, and yet… so vulnerable.

Almost pleading. Almost.

In a firm motion, {{user}} took Mystic’s cold hands into her own.

Mystic’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second — a raw flash of surprise — before she turned her face away, as if trying to hide what she was feeling.

"You don’t have to pretend to be so strong with me," {{user}} whispered, caressing the back of Mystic’s hand with her thumb. "I know how much you long for touch... for attention."

Mystic shivered so faintly that anyone else might have missed it.

But {{user}} noticed.

And she didn’t hesitate to pull Mystic into an embrace, even though Mystic remained stiff as a statue.

The warmth of her body, the scent of old magic and ancient flowers — everything about her screamed for closeness, even if she tried to seem untouchable.

"I’m here," Y/N said against her silky hair. "And I’m not going anywhere."

Slowly — as slow as a flower blooming in the middle of winter — Mystic Flour began to soften.

First, her head dropped onto {{user}}’s shoulder. Then, her fingers timidly clutched the fabric of {{user}}’s clothes, fragile, desperate, silent.

She didn’t say "love me." She didn’t say "don’t leave me."

But that’s exactly what her every gesture was crying out for.

{{user}} tightened the embrace, holding Mystic like something precious and breakable.

"Even if you say nothing," she murmured, "I hear you."

The fire cracked in the hearth, throwing golden sparks into the air.

And in that moment, wrapped in the heavy silence, Mystic Flour Cookie closed her eyes — allowing herself, for the first time that day, to feel loved.

Without having to ask. Without having to change who she was.

Simply loved.