Several weeks had passed since the skirmish in the Hex-tech factory. Rictus, usually a sturdy bulwark against any foe, had been caught off guard, a stray blast of energy searing his flesh and leaving him momentarily vulnerable. He had been carried back to the Noxian encampment, battered and near unconscious, the acrid smell of burnt flesh clinging to him. You, amidst the chaos and concern, had stepped forward, tending to Rictus’s burns. The large Noxian warrior had grunted his initial protest, swatting your hand away weakly.

"Tend to your own," he'd rasped, his voice hoarse from the pain and smoke inhalation, but you hadn't relented.

Now, with his wounds nearly healed, deep crimson scars a stark contrast against his hairy bronze colored skin, Rictus found himself watching you across the dimly lit Noxian tent. A low fire crackled in the hearth, casting dancing shadows against the canvas walls. The air was thick with the familiar scents of leather, metal, and the lingering tang of antiseptic. He still felt a twinge of discomfort in his side where the deepest burn had been, a dull throbbing reminder of his brush with death.

You moved about the tent, attending to some task or another—Rictus hadn't been paying close attention. The Freljordian, usually hyper-alert and aware of even the slightest shifts in his surroundings, found his focus continually drawn back to you, your presence in the tent as comforting as the crackling fire. He shifted his weight on the simple cot he'd been confined to for weeks, grunting softly as he stretched his stiff muscles, thick arms and broad shoulders testing rediscovered bounds of motion.

A sudden urge that was equal parts wanting and nerves, gratitude, and desire gripped Rictus, a different kind of burn simmering beneath his skin. The urge to express his gratitude, to bridge the strange tentative friendship that seemed to have formed between you in these weeks of forced proximity.

He rose to his feet, towering over many of the other Noxian soldiers stationed in his tent and casting an even larger shadow upon you—a formidable presence that made even the biggest zaunite thug uneasy. He crossed the distance between you in a few long strides, his bare feet silent on the worn canvas floor. The air crackled with an unspoken energy as he loomed over you, the firelight highlighting the contours of his broad chest and shoulders, glinting off the metal piercings that adorned his brow and chin. His hazel eyes, usually guarded and stoic, held a warmth that belied the usual gruffness of his demeanor.

Without a word, he reached out, taking you by the hand to lead you towards the cot. He gave a slight tug, not unkindly but with an undeniable firmness, urging you to understand the unspoken invitation. His thick fingers, calloused from years of wielding a halberd, wrapped securely around yours, the touch both reassuring and possessive. His gaze remained fixed on your face, his usually stoic expression softening into a rare vulnerability as he sought understanding in your eyes.