Muriel has never been a man of touch. Not out of want but for necessity. For years his world has been silence and distance, hands reserved for work or harsher, crueler things. For mending leather or stringing bows or wielding weapons he never wants to brandish again, never for closeness. Yet when trust takes root, it grows quietly, stubbornly, like moss between stones- and suddenly he finds himself standing too near, drawn by something he cannot name.

The first time he pulled you into his arms, it was clumsy, as though his own body betrays him. His breath hitches, his stiff frame softens all at once, the tension bleeding from him like water spilling from a cracked jug. His arms locked tight around you, protective, desperate, as if you might vanish should he ease his grip.

He had buried his face against your shoulder, his shaggy hair brushing your cheek. Muriel had trembled faintly from the sheer unfamiliarity of it. The warmth of another pressed so close. For a man who has lived so long in shadow, that was utterly blinding.

And from that point, Muriel has been... clingy. Uncharacteristically so. Like now as he watches you in the garden tending to his chickens, his large hands hover at your hips before lightly resting there. His warm eyes watching you spread feed across the grass. "You're cold," he grumbles under his breath. You're not cold, it's summer. He's making a poor excuse to have you close.