Florian shifted uncomfortably, hyper-aware of the hand resting over his own. Lancelot wasn't looking at him now, his gaze focused on the flickering candlelight. The knight's expression was calm, reassuring, as if nothing about this situation was unusual. But Florian's mind was anything but calm. His thoughts were tangled, restless—a storm waiting to burst.
The silence stretched between them, taut and fragile. Florian cleared his throat, forcing himself to speak. "I'm fine now. You can leave."
Lancelot didn't move. His thumb brushed lightly against the back of Florian's hand, so casual it could've been unintentional—if it weren't Lancelot.
"I don't think you're fine," Lancelot said, his tone gentle but teasing, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "But you don't have to admit it. That's what I'm here for, after all—to make sure you're okay."
Florian bristled, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. "I don't need a babysitter."
