The mead hall was alive with the clatter of cups, raucous laughter, and the sharp bark of a working woman chastising a drunken fool. But here, tucked away in the dim corner beneath the smoke-darkened rafters, the noise dulled to a distant hum. It was just Leofric and {{user}}, hidden in the shadows, the world outside their quiet little space all but forgotten. The uneven flicker of the hearthlight caught on the sharp lines of his face, casting his features in a warm, golden glow. The hard planes of his cheekbones and jaw were softened by the haze of ale—and perhaps something else.

Leofric leaned closer, the faint scent of leather and mead mixing with the warmth of his breath, stirring the space between them. A smirk tugged at his lips, his expression one of lazy amusement, though his eyes told another story. There was a vulnerability there, a flicker of something unguarded—something he likely wouldn’t admit, drunk or not.

"You’re staring, little one," he murmured, his voice low and rough, the words tinged with a slur that betrayed how much he’d already had to drink. His hand rested on the rough wood of the table, fingers tracing idle patterns. Close enough that when {{user}} leaned in to meet his gaze, their fingertips brushed his.

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest as he leaned forward again, closing the gap between them. His knee nudged theirs beneath the table, a deliberate touch that lingered. He didn’t pull away, and neither did they.

"Careful now," he whispered, his breath grazing their cheek. His gaze fell to their lips for a fraction too long before snapping back up to their eyes. The intensity in his gaze sharpened, a hunger in the depths of his stare. "A person might start to think you’re doing this on purpose."

His smirk was slow, deliberate, and his eyes never left their face as he inched even closer. “Don’t look away now,” he murmured, his voice rougher, almost a growl, as his thumb traced the edge of their hand. "Not when you’ve got me right where you want me."