Chapter 763: I’m tired… can you help relax?
Strax’s mansion rose from among the trees as it always did: silent, solid, old enough not to need proving anything to anyone. The pale stones reflected the late afternoon light, and the tall windows were open, letting the air circulate freely. Nothing there seed burdened with urgency.
Strax crossed the outer gate with long, lazy strides.
“—Aaah…” he stretched exaggeratedly, his arms raised above his head, his spine cracking in protest. A low groan escaped his throat, half exhaustion, half relief. “—Ho…”
He pushed open the front door unceremoniously, letting it close on its own behind him, and walked a few steps into the main hall before dropping his bag on the floor as if abandoning invisible armor.
It was then that he saw them.
Kryssia and Xenovia were seated near the large side window, where the light stread softly in. A low table separated the two, upon it a porcelain teapot, two steaming cups, and a plate of biscuits that was clearly no longer full. The scene had an almost offensive tranquility after all they had faced.
Xenovia held her cup with both hands, carefully blowing away the steam, while Kryssia slowly chewed a biscuit, her gaze distant, like soone finally allowing her mind to slow down.
Strax smiled slightly.
Without asking permission, he approached and sat between them, sinking into the sofa with a heavy sigh. He put one arm around Xenovia’s waist and the other around Kryssia’s, pulling them slightly closer.
“I’m tired,” he admitted, without any drama, closing his eyes for a mont.
Xenovia raised an eyebrow, amused, and leaned slightly toward him.
“How rare,” she said, with gentle irony. “The great strategist admitting exhaustion.”
Kryssia let out a small, nasal laugh and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Miracles do happen,” she finished.
Strax opened one eye.
“You know that if you keep talking like that, I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear and go to sleep anyway.”
Xenovia laughed and, with an almost automatic gesture, began to slowly massage his shoulder, her firm fingers working the accumulated tension. Kryssia followed the movent from the other side, pressing lightly on his side, as if adjusting an old joint.
Strax’s body responded imdiately.
He sank further into the sofa, letting out a satisfied sigh.
“Hm… that’s conspiracy,” he murmured.
“It’s called care,” Kryssia replied calmly.
“And practice,” Xenovia added.
The atmosphere settled into a comfortable rhythm: the distant sound of the wind in the trees, the soft clinking of the porcelain as Xenovia set her cup down on the table, the gentle crackling of the fireplace lit just to keep the room warm.
Then footsteps erged on the stairs.
Dragging footsteps.
Heavily stacked.
Monica descended the steps with an absurd pile of papers in her arms. Parchnts, reports, folded maps, docunts with official stamps—all piled dangerously precariously. Her eyes were half-closed, marked by deep dark circles, and her hair, normally impeccable, was haphazardly tied back.
She stopped on the last step.
Her gaze swept across the room.
The scene was recorded in silence: Strax sprawled on the sofa, Kryssia and Xenovia clearly too comfortable, hot tea, almost-finished biscuits.
Monica took a deep breath.
“It’s good to know you’re well-rested,” he said, in a tone so dry it could have cracked wood.
Strax opened his eyes and turned his face toward her.
He blinked.
Then he smiled.
“Monica…” he began, almost laughing. “You look like you’ve been hit by a train.”
She didn’t deign to answer imdiately. She rely adjusted the stack of papers in her arms with difficulty, her jaw tense.
“There were three,” she finally replied. “One after the other. All administrative.”
Xenovia suppressed a smile. Kryssia looked away to avoid laughing out loud.
Strax let out a low, sincere laugh.
“You need a vacation.”
Monica stopped.
She turned her face slowly toward him, her gaze filled with sothing dangerously close to jealousy.
“If I take a vacation,” she said, with forced calm, “this city will collapse.”
“Exaggeration,” he replied, still smiling.
“Planning,” she corrected.
Monica resud walking, crossing the hall with firm steps despite her evident fatigue. As she passed them, she cast one last critical glance at the sofa.
“Enjoy the tea,” she comnted. “While it lasts.”
She continued towards the hallway, but before leaving the room completely, she stopped.
Without turning around, she spoke over her shoulder, in a tone as direct as it was exhausted:
“Eat both quickly…” she made a vague gesture with her hand, “…and then co to my room. I need to de-stress.”
There was absolute silence for half a second.
Then Monica continued walking and disappeared down the hallway, her footsteps echoing softly.
Strax remained motionless.
He blinked.
Twice.
Kryssia slowly raised her face.
Xenovia coughed to stifle a laugh.
“Well…” Kryssia began, with a suspicious calm. “It seems you have commitnts.”
Strax ran a hand over his face, still smiling, an incredulous laugh escaping.
“She never changes,” he murmured.
“Neither do you,” Xenovia replied, lightly squeezing his waist before turning away to get another biscuit.
Kryssia stood up, stretching elegantly.
“I think you’d better go before she gets even more annoyed.”
Strax sighed, but the smile didn’t disappear.
“You’re cruel,” he said, rising with theatrical effort.
“She told to eat both,” he repeated, too casually. “Are you going to refuse?”
Xenovia chuckled softly, resting her elbow on the back of the sofa and looking him up and down as if assessing an interesting problem.
“Deny it?” She tilted her head. “No. But do you really think you’ll get away with this unscathed?”
Kryssia crossed her arms, a half-smile appearing at the corner of her lips.
“You just got back from a mission, admitted you were exhausted…” she took a step closer. “And yet you want to provoke ?”
Strax opened his arms in a gesture of surrender.
“I said ‘I’m tired,’ not ‘I’ve learned to have common sense.'”
Xenovia laughed openly this ti and stood up, approaching him with slow, deliberate steps. She ran her fingers along the collar of his shirt, adjusting it without haste.
“You have an impressive ability to create comfortable problems,” she murmured.
Kryssia approached from the other side, placing her hand firmly on his back.
“And an even greater ability to trust that we’ll save you from them.”
Strax sighed dramatically.
“Trust is the foundation of any healthy relationship.”
“Hm” Xenovia leaned in, speaking close to his ear. “Monica would call this strategic irresponsibility.”
“Monica calls almost everything irresponsibility” he replied, smiling.
From the hallway, Monica’s voice echoed, muffled but perfectly audible:
“I can still hear you.”
Kryssia closed her eyes for a second, as if making a conscious choice.
“Then” she said “I think it’s best not to test her patience any further.”
Xenovia took a step back, extending her hand to Strax.
“Co on. Before she decides to co up here with more reports… or orders.”
Strax took her hand and then Kryssia’s, letting himself be pulled along, still with that relaxed air that bordered on insolence.
“You know,” he comnted as they walked, “that this is all my fault, right?”
“It always is,” Kryssia replied.
“But curiously,” Xenovia added, “it never feels like a mistake.”
They walked down the hallway, the mansion enveloping them once more in its comfortable silence. The fireplace continued crackling on its own, the tea cooling on the table, the biscuits forgotten.
Upstairs, a door closed.
Kryssia didn’t respond imdiately.
She simply held Strax’s arm firmly enough to leave no room for discussion and led him to the master bedroom. The door closed behind them with a muffled sound, isolating the outside world. The room was spacious, illuminated by the soft light filtering through the partially open curtains, and the king-size bed dominated the center of the space like a blatant invitation to rest—or to even worse decisions.
“You talk too much when you’re tired,” Kryssia murmured.
“You prefer it when I act,” he replied, still with that lazy smile. She pushed him without warning.
Not violently, but intentionally.
Strax fell sitting on the edge of the bed and, before he could recover, Kryssia pushed him again, making him fall back onto the soft sheets. The mattress sank under his weight, eliciting a surprised gasp that quickly turned to laughter.
“I deserved it,” he admitted.
Xenovia closed the door calmly and turned, leaning against it for a mont just to observe them. Her eyes assessed the scene with silent interest, like soone deciding when—and how—to enter the ga.
Kryssia, for her part, was already unbuttoning her own clothes with tranquil, almost ritualistic movents. There was no hurry. Only certainty. Each piece was set aside without ceremony, as if it had no importance beyond what was to co.
Strax propped himself up on his elbows, following each movent.
“You two are dangerous,” he comnted.
“You never complained about that,” Kryssia replied, approaching the bed.
She leaned over him, one leg on each side of his body, her weight evenly distributed. Her gaze t his for a mont—serious, intense, familiar—before she leaned in slowly.
Kryssia’s lips touched Strax’s neck, first lightly, almost exploratory. Then more firmly, tracing a slow path that made him close his eyes and let out a long sigh.
“Hm…” he murmured. “That definitely helps with relaxation.”
“Be quiet,” she replied, her voice low, too close to be ignored.
Xenovia approached the bed, resting one knee on the mattress, observing the scene closely now. She ran her fingers along Strax’s arm, feeling the tension still present there, as if assessing how much remained to be released.
“You really need to learn to rest without being dragged into it,” she comnted.
“But then I’d lose half the charm,” he replied, without opening his eyes.
Kryssia laughed softly against his skin and remained there for a few more seconds, until she pulled away enough to look at him again.
“Monica will kill us if we take too long,” she said, almost reluctantly.
Strax opened his eyes and smiled, relaxed, the tiredness finally beginning to subside.
“Then I think it’s best if we don’t test her patience… today.”
Xenovia smiled slightly.
“Wise decision. Rare, but wise.”
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