Drystan was trying his best not to be such an ogre about the League starting in May now. Of course, his best was still a surly refusal to so much as grunt when battered with a Bludger, so that was a work in progress. But at least his intentions were genuine—for the most part. Burn-out was a serious concern for him, having had less than two months to recover from a grueling season, but he would manage. Perhaps learn to lean a little bit more on people, rather than keep everything so tightly cordoned within him.
Whatever personal feelings aside, he aimed to work harder than he ever had this season. For too many years, he'd only just missed the win. Coming in second wasn't acceptable anymore—all of Puddlemere were redoubling their efforts… and he had a good feeling about it.
After practice—though this was more of an "easing into things," he opted to shower at home. Just a quick one, Drystan thought, and he'd fix dinner for Bess and the little ones before they returned. Wrapping the towel low on his hips, he sauntered out of the master bath with happy thoughts about flannel pyjamas before an anguished growl caught his attention. Drystan stopped short in the doorway when he saw Bess bent over the desk, clearly in a mood.
He folded his arms and leaned against the door frame, unabashedly enjoying the view for a few moments before speaking. "I can't say I've ever tried it, but," his smile was guileless as he scrutinized the open drawer, "I reckon it'd be a bit of a tight squeeze for me in there."
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