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Summary
You want to see him, want to see his face, want to watch his pupils dilate when the praise washes over him, and he can read it in your mind that it’s coming, so he allows you to lift his armor away. What you’re met with is something that has your knees nearly weak – for there is a glimmer of gold in his eyes, a hint of fire, of orange-red energy which flickers for a moment, yellow and fierce before the brown of his irises floods into yours.
He swallows hard, desperate to hear you say it, and you brush a thumb over his bottom lip, lean in to rub your noses together sickly sweet, when you say,
“You did /so/ well.”