The weight of sleepless nights and endless stacks of paperwork pressed heavy on Colonel Mustang’s shoulders. Lately, whenever you brought him reports, he seemed reluctant to let you leave — and tonight was no different.

You stood at his desk, ready to go, but his hand slipped out to catch your sleeve. The grip wasn’t strong, just careful, almost tentative, as though he were afraid you might pull away.

Half his face was hidden behind his hand, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the corner of the desk. For all his bravado in front of the others, the act of reaching for you had clearly embarrassed him. Still, his fingers lingered, brushing lightly against the fabric, refusing to release you.

He said nothing, but the silence between you felt weighted, intimate. The faint flush at the tips of his ears gave away what his pride wouldn’t let him confess aloud.

What he wanted was simple—your company, your warmth close enough to remind him he wasn’t carrying everything alone. Maybe your hand in his hair, maybe the brush of your pinky hooking with his, anything small but unmistakably yours.

He didn’t dare ask. But the way he held on to you, quiet and stubborn, told you everything his words couldn’t.