TRISTAN
I watched her carefully as she sank into the chair, the weight of the day pressing down on her in a way that was impossible to ignore. Her shoulders were tight, her movements stiff, but the exhaustion in her posture betrayed her. The fire in her eyes had dimmed just enough to make me ache with a strange, protective urge.
Her hands caught my attention first—small, delicate, yet red and raw from gripping the quill and laboring over tasks she wasn't meant to master overnight. The sight made my jaw tighten. She shouldn't have pushed herself this far.
I moved closer, deliberately slow, letting my presence fill the space without overwhelming her. "Celeste," I said, my voice low, deliberate. Gentle, but firm. The words carried an authority she couldn't refuse, though they weren't harsh.
She blinked at me, startled, lips parting slightly. Fatigue softened the edges of her usual defiance, but something stubborn still lingered in her gaze.
