This is foolish. Not wrong in truth (for Judges are free to manage their own business, provided it holds no interference over matters of duty or dignity), but reckless enough to be damning when he realizes he’d not locked the door to these quarters, planning only on the comfort of his presence.

Though it is possible that is the very definition of what she asks for now, and what he cannot seem to draw himself away from in order to ensure absolute discretion.

Come here, she urges, and so he does: rough hands harsh across her shoulders, one knee resting just against the edge of the mattress, all keen intent rather than anything polished. Practiced. He kisses her as a man deprived, touch-starved to the bone, and seeking it out by way of heat without foresight. Unfocused, glancing contact. Anything at all provides.

A lifetime of cold metal, and all he wants is to forget it. Bury it beneath her touch. Her skin.

For she is beautiful in that promise.