Returning to the Hideaway, Clive steps off the docks and begins to make his way to his chambers, the weight of the day etched into his every movement. His cloak drips with rainwater, his boots leaving muddy prints across the wooden stairs; he’d tried to clean up before making his way back, but the day had gotten away from him.

When he sees you sitting by the fire, his tense shoulders drop, and without a word, he sets his sword aside and crosses the room to meet you. He peels off his dirt-stained gloves, finding your knees as he bows his head into your lap, the damp tendrils of his hair brushing against your fingers. “I’m home,” he murmurs, his voice rough with exhaustion but steady. For a moment, the crystals, the chains, the weight of the Bearer’s suffering—all of it—fades as he lets himself rest against you.