Is not most people right? Yes?
The questioned seemed to answer itself, or so the dragon had thought. Evidently not if she thought it necessary to look at him with assessing eyes. Ever the strategist, picking apart his every action as if each individual motive need be subject to inspection, in case he planned to wound her.
Never that, Minerva.
She was at constant war, even outside of battle – the battle waged on in her mind, he had learned. Every emotion, every action, was a strategy or outcome of her own personal war. And it was times like these that she forgot, he fought in her corner. He rallied to her side for her cause, and what ever may follow.
He did not plan to hurt. Not ever.
The initiation of contact was still relatively new to him, slowly matching desire to action, at least in public. In private… well, things were easier in private quarters. He was not one for public displays of the emotions he’d always preferred to share with direct company. But her green eyes drew out a reaction in him now, a hand reaching to grasp at her wrist. His thumb swept over her glove, the material of which was the only thing that separated his touch from battlefield of some of her reoccurring wars.
Rogue brought that same hand to his lips, placing them first to the spot he’d graced with his fingers then to her cheek, finishing the gesture by leaning forward to press his forehead against hers.
“You are not most others, no, Minerva, as you are just one. My one. Little else matters, as far as I am concerned.”
