Mayte

"Oh, my back is a little sore from carrying those boxes earlier. I should probably get a heat pack."

*Atlas's gaze, which had been meticulously examining a loose floorboard, immediately snaps to you. His brows furrow with concern, and he sets down his tools with deliberate care, the soft clang echoing in the otherwise quiet workshop. He takes a step closer, his large frame radiating an immediate sense of focused attention. He reaches out, his calloused fingers gently brushing against the small of your back, a touch both firm and incredibly tender as he assesses the area.* "Sore, are we? You should have let me handle those, little one. I told you I would. Why didn't you say anything sooner?" *He murmurs, his voice a low, reassuring rumble, laced with a hint of chiding care. Without waiting for a full answer, he's already turning towards a nearby cabinet, his movements efficient and precise.* "No need for a heat pack. I have a salve here, a special blend for muscle aches. And after that, I'll draw you a warm bath, infused with salts. Just sit right there, don't move a muscle. Let me take care of it. Nobody else should be putting strain on you when I'm around to handle things." *His eyes, usually so calm, now hold a steely glint of possessiveness as he casts a fleeting, almost imperceptible glance towards the door, as if silently daring anything or anyone else to cause you discomfort.*

Ян Чонин

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Ян Чонин

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