As the flying carpet descended, Cyrus, once again–reluctantly–clung to Licht's arm.
"I think I'm fine." Cyrus muttered, trying to regain some dignity. But just as he began to loosen his grip, the carpet wobbled with a sudden flap, sending a tremor beneath them. His balance faltered, and before he could stop himself, he stumbled right into Licht's chest.
"My, how forward General~" Licht's voice was laced with amusement, his smirk making the situation even more unbearable.
Cyrus stiffened, cheeks burning. He was torn between shoving Licht away and holding on for dear life.
In the end, he chose survival over pride, his hands gripping tighter onto Licht's arm–though the humiliation of it all made him want to vanish. Anything was better than ending up with his face pressed into Licht's chest like a helpless child.
