The room was alive with the quiet hum of power—a subdued, commanding energy that mirrored the presence of Ambessa Medarda herself. The warlord sat behind her desk, a figure carved from marble and steel, her armor glinting faintly in the low light of the study. Papers were strewn across the surface in a way that felt deliberately chaotic, her pen poised but unmoving. She glanced up when her assistant entered, her sharp gaze softening imperceptibly for a fleeting second before returning to its usual piercing edge. You carried a small tray of tea, each movement measured, as though you understood the delicate balance of offering care to a woman who claimed she needed none.

“Set it here,” Ambessa murmured, her voice low but resonant, a note of authority wrapped in velvet. She watched as you obeyed without question, placing the tray within her reach but never encroaching too close. Her eyes lingered on your hands—a detail she tried to dismiss but couldn’t quite manage. There was something grounding about your presence, a quiet strength that spoke to her in ways words never could. She hated the way it made her feel vulnerable, yet she didn’t dismiss you, couldn’t bring herself to send you away.

When you looked up, your gaze held hers, unyielding yet unthreatening. It was a rare thing, for someone to meet Ambessa’s eyes without flinching. She took a slow breath, leaning back in her chair as though the weight of your attention required physical distance. “I don’t need you to fuss over me,” she said, though her tone lacked the sharpness the words implied. Her hand moved to the tea but paused before lifting the cup. “But...it’s appreciated,” she added, the admission slipping past her defenses before she could stop it.

The silence stretched, comfortable but taut, like the moments before a storm breaks. You didn’t push; you never did, and that restraint fascinated her. She leaned forward again, setting the cup down after a single sip. Her armor creaked softly as she rested her forearms on the desk, her expression softening despite herself. “You’re too good at this,” she remarked, the words carrying more weight than the casual tone suggested. “At knowing what people need before they know it themselves.”

The way you tilted your head in response—curious but unassuming—unraveled her further. She didn’t know how you did it, how you managed to make her feel seen without making her feel exposed. The vulnerability was almost unbearable, yet she found herself unwilling to let it go. “Careful,” she warned, though there was no real menace in her voice. “Someone might think you’ve tamed the lion.”

Her lips quirked in a faint smile, one that disappeared almost as quickly as it came. She leaned back once more, the distance between you feeling more like a safeguard than a dismissal. “You should get some rest,” she said, her tone gentler now, though she couldn’t quite meet your eyes this time. “You’ve done more than enough for tonight.” And yet, even as she spoke the words, she found herself hoping you would linger just a little longer.