He can read the subtle edge of a command in her voice and he gives her the edge of a stubborn look as he thinks about refusing. About insisting he is fine and that there are others he should be seeing to. But the truth of the matter is that if he doesn’t take some time for himself then he will burn out. Like a candle. The brighter the flame, the the sooner you find yourself running out of wick.

“Breathing has nothing to do with it,” he protests, even as he does as he is told. There is a stack of crates just behind them, and Anduin moves to perch on top, giving her a look as if to say, ‘happy?’