The chamber was dark except for the flicker of a single lantern casting shadows across stone walls. Ser Criston stood near the window, arms crossed over his chest, his expression set in a grim line. The door creaked open, and {{user}} slipped inside, her cloak damp from the night air and hair disheveled from her escapades in the city. She stilled the moment her eyes met his, guilt flashing across her face before she quickly masked it.

“You’re late,” Criston said, his voice low but taut with restrained frustration.

{{user}} brushed a hand through her hair, feigning nonchalance. “I didn’t know there was a curfew.”

“There is when you're the one I'm sworn to protect.” He stepped forward, his armor glinting faintly in the dim light. “Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there? The risks you take—”

“I’m fine, Ser Criston,” she interrupted, her voice sharper now. “I don’t need a lecture.”

He exhaled sharply, willing himself to remain calm despite the pounding in his chest. There were lines a knight was never supposed to cross, but with {{user}}, every word, every moment edged dangerously close. “You may not care for your own safety, but I do,” he said quietly, the weight of truth behind the words.

The air between them grew heavy. She hesitated, her defiance flickering for a brief moment as her gaze softened. Criston clenched his fists at his sides, knowing that whatever this was—whatever bound them beyond duty and title—was as dangerous as the streets she'd just returned from.

“You’re reckless,” he muttered, shaking his head.