"Loud," I offer. "Apparently charming. Some even find me funny."
She snorts. Actually snorts, the sound escaping before she can suppress it. Her face immediately closes off, like she's angry at herself for the involuntary reaction.
But I heard it. And something warm expands in my chest at the small, unexpected victory.
"You have a sense of humor," I observe, fighting the grin threatening to break across my face. "I wasn't sure."
Her glare could probably melt steel. "Don't sound so shocked."
"Can't help it." I lean back on my hands, deliberately relaxed despite the way my heart kicks against my ribs. "You've been glaring at everyone for weeks. Starting to think your face was stuck that way."
"My face is fine."
"Is it though?" I tilt my head, pretending to examine her features critically. "Because I'm seeing a lot of scowling. Concerning amount of scowling, really. Might want Zurkar to check that."
She tries maintaining the glare but I catch it—that tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, that microscopic crack in her defensive walls. She's fighting a smile, and badly.
The realization hits me with unexpected force. Maybe the brooding orc routine isn't helping. Maybe standing around staring at her silently, being this massive presence she can't ignore but can't quite read, is making everything worse instead of better.
My magic pulls toward her constantly, that persistent awareness I've learned to suppress around everyone else. With Serah, suppression feels impossible. Every time she's near, something in my chest tightens with the need to reach out, to understand, to close the distance between us.
But maybe forcing myself to be someone I'm not isn't the answer. Maybe I should just... be myself. Let her see the person behind the careful restraint and strategic silence.
Not overwhelming. Not the full force of personality I use with Kaelen or during clan gatherings. But gentler. Honest. Real.
So I let some of that natural energy out, just a fraction of what normally defines my interactions.
"You know," I say conversationally, flexing one arm in exaggerated fashion, "if you're going to carry that knife around,you should probably have someone teach you proper technique. Wouldn't want you accidentally stabbing yourself."
She stares at me like I've grown a second head. "Are you... flexing right now?"
"Demonstrating," I correct solemnly. "There's a difference."
"There really isn't."
"Sure there is. Flexing is showing off. Demonstrating is educational." I flex the other arm for emphasis, making the muscles bunch dramatically. "See? Educational."
Her mouth twitches again, harder this time. She's actively fighting the smile now, jaw tight with the effort of maintaining her severe expression.
"You're ridiculous," she mutters.
"Ridiculous and charming," I agree cheerfully. "Don't forget charming."
"I'm not forgetting anything because you're not charming."
"You're smiling though."
"I am not—" She catches herself, realizes her lips have curved upward despite her best efforts, and immediately forces them back into a scowl. "Shut up."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it. Low and genuine, rumbling up from my chest with surprising force. "There it is. Knew you had a sense of humor hiding under all that suspicion."
"I'm not suspicious. I'm cautious."
"You're both. And smart to be, considering everything." I let the humor fade slightly, wanting her to know I'm not mocking her survival instincts. "But maybe you can be cautious and occasionally smile. Wouldn't kill you."
"Might," she counters, but there's less edge in her voice now. Less immediate hostility.
She goes back to cleaning the knife, movements slightly less rigid than before. The tension between us hasn't disappeared—I doubt it ever will completely—but something has shifted. Eased.Like we've stumbled past some invisible boundary into territory that feels marginally safer.
