You never meant to weaponize your height. To you, tip-toe kisses are nothing—just instinct, just affection.

But to Flins?

It destroys him in the gentlest, sweetest way.

Every time you rise on your toes to kiss his cheek, he pretends not to notice. Pretends he didn’t slow down the way he leaned toward you. Pretends he didn’t pause just long enough for you to try.

He loves seeing you reach for him.

Not because you’re helpless—never helpless. But because you’re cherished, protected, prioritized.

And he treats you exactly like that.

When he holds the door for you, he bows his head slightly so you can pass. When you climb a few steps and look uncertain, he offers his hand with that polite Fontaine grace. When you walk beside him, his arm naturally shifts so it hovers near your back—guiding without touching, protective without smothering.

It feels like being escorted by a knight.

Because that’s how Flins moves around you: tall, elegant, undeniably strong… yet unbelievably gentle.

And his height only makes that softness hit harder.

Sometimes he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers brushing your cheek as he bends down just far enough to meet your eyes. Sometimes he leans in close to whisper something private, voice low, breath warm against your skin—always lowering himself to meet you first.

And when you hesitate? If you glance at his lips and then look away?

He notices instantly.

He dips his head, one hand sliding behind your back, coaxing you closer until your face presses naturally to his chest—your perfect place, as if it was made for you. His arms fold around you, warm and secure, enclosing you completely.

He feels responsible not for your smallness— but for the way your body softens when held by someone you trust.

Not possessive. Devoted. Gentle in a way that feels old-world, knight-like.

And he kneels for you without a shred of shame.

If your shoe lace loosens, if a strap slips, if you need help with anything, he doesn’t bend or crouch.

He lowers himself fully, one knee to the ground, movements graceful, deliberate. He looks up at you with those calm, noble eyes— and your heart trips over itself.

Forehead kisses come constantly, without warning. He’ll lean down, press his lips to your skin, and linger just a second longer than necessary—soft, reverent.

And picking you up?

Too easy for him.

He always asks first, in that quiet, respectful tone:

“May I?”

But once you nod, his hand slips behind your back, the other beneath your knees, and you’re lifted effortlessly— like you weigh nothing, like someone precious carried to safety, like a beloved in the arms of her knight.