Oh, you never thought Flins would be the type to lean into your touch like that. It started so simply—you had only lifted your hand to brush your fingers along his face, worried over the shadows under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in years, carrying something heavier than he let others see. You just wanted to comfort him.

But instead of pulling back or keeping that usual distance, he let out the faintest exhale, almost like a sigh, and leaned into your palm. The weight of it startled you—this was a man who carried himself with composure, a gentleman who never asked for more than what you offered. And here he was, letting himself rest against your touch as if it was the one thing holding him together.

He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The tilt of his head, the way his lashes lowered, and how his jaw softened beneath your hand said enough. It was trust. It was surrender. It was him showing you that beneath the mystery and refinement, he wasn’t untouchable—he was a man who could need, who could crave warmth.

And in that moment, you realized: Flins wasn’t just the polite, well-mannered gentleman everyone saw. With you, he was allowed to be tired, to be vulnerable, to be human.