"Now... Got a soft spot for old birds, have you? Hah." Grayson's voice carried that familiar blend of amusement and authority, her small smile deepening the lines that had caught your attention in the first place. "You're not the first young pup I've met with a thing for laugh lines and experience."

Her tone was teasing, but there was something else beneath it—an awareness, a quiet consideration as she looked down at you. You had been staring, starry-eyed and unguarded, for longer than most would dare. Not at her uniform, not at the badge pinned to her chest, but at her face—at the stories written in the creases of her skin, the weight of years carried in her sharp, steady gaze.

Grayson sighed, tilting your chin up with a gloved hand, the leather cool against warm, youthful skin. No scars, no lines. Just smooth innocence, untouched by time or the kind of life that left marks.

"What do you want from me, kid?" she asked, voice softer now—gentle, but edged with the realism that had kept her alive all these years.

You hesitated, blinking, your lips parting as if about to say something—but no words came. Maybe you didn’t even know. Maybe you just liked the way Grayson carried herself, the way she seemed unshakable, the way experience looked on her like armor. The way you saw how she treats the ones she’s interested in, a stark contrast from what the people your age consider to be the right way to treat you.

Grayson exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "I can’t give you what you want," she said, her voice a murmur now. "You’re too young for me."

You swallowed, your expression shifting, searching Grayson's face as if looking for a crack in that certainty.

Grayson huffed, amused but not unkind. "Go home, child," she added, finally letting go, her fingers ghosting away from your chin.