ahn!!

𑣲 : BLUEBERRY CHEESECAKE and an americano || Love and Deepspace

𑣲 : MOCHA CAKE and an espresso || Genshin Impact

𑣲 : DOUBLE DUTCH and black tea || Off Campus

𑣲 : RED VELVET and vanilla latte || Minors do not Interact. NSFW.

𑣲 : PINK CHAMPAGNE and hibiscus tea || Haikyuu

𑣲 : UBE COCONUT and matcha latte || Jujutsu no Kaisen

𑣲 : LEMON VANILLA and earl gray || DC Comics, HTTYD

NOTICE FROM HIRAYA CAKES AND COFFEE:

𑣲 : MONDSTADT || the nation of freedom

diluc ragnvindr · darknight hero · dark side of dawn

Strawberry || Not Just A Friend || High School Romances || Thoughts || Squish

Angst ;; "May I Have This Dance" || Warmth

kaeya alberich · cavalry captain · Frostwind Swordsman

Not Just A Friend || Fingers Through your Hair || Sweep Me Off My Feet || In the Film Industry || Thoughts || Squish

venti · anemo archon · barbatos

Fingers through your Hair || Familiar Tune [Angst]

lisa · the Witch of Purple Rose· librarian

In the Film Industry

varka · The Invincible Knight of Boreas · Wolf knight

Hot Soup || Lullaby

albedo kreideprinz · the alchemist

Meet Cute: Coffee Shop

𑣲 : LIYUE|| the nation of contracts

zhongli · god of contracts · rex lapis

Not Just A Friend || High School Romances || In the Film Industry || Hot Soup || God, You're Beautiful || Squish

Angst ;; Rex Lapis, The Warrior God

xiao · vigilant yaksha · conqueror of demons

Of Gold and Red || Gifts || Thoughts || Squish

𑣲 : INAZUMA|| the nation of eternity

thoma · the housekeeper · ahn's husband

Freckles || Lifetime || High School Romance || Hot Soup || God, You're Beautiful || Meet Cute: Coffee Shop || Squish

kazuha kaedehara · the wandering samurai

Stupid Cupid! || Meet Cute: Coffee shop || Thoughts

arataki itto · The One and Oni · The First and Greatest Head of the Arataki Gang

Fingers through your Hair

gorou · general of the watatsumi army

Gifts || In the Film Industry

kamisato ayato · pillar of fortitude

In the Film Industry || God ,You're Beautiful

Angst ;; Duty over Heart

sangonomiya kokomi · Divine Priestess of Watatsumi Island

In the Film Industry

𑣲 : SUMERU || the nation of wisdom

kaveh · Light of Kshahrewar

God, You're Beautiful

𑣲 : FONTAINE|| the nation of justice

to be added . . .

𑣲 : NATLAN|| the nation of war

to be added . . .

𑣲 : SNEZHNAYA|| the nation of ...

ajax · tartaglia · childe

The Morning After || Morning Spar || Not Just A Friend

flins

Lullaby

𑣲 : ENKANOMIYA

enjou · abyss lector

Strange Man in Enkanomiya

𑣲 : NOD-KRAI

illuga · Burning Heart Amidst the Nightmare

Lullaby

𑣲 : SAGAU

levelupAU! · discontinued until further notice

Introduction || Part 2 || Part 3

You freeze, and you chuckle nervously. “Oh! Uhm… no. Not.. exactly just…” You smile sheepishly. “Zhongli, can I- squish?”

“... Squish?” 

“Your cheeks.”

“Oh?”

You grin. “It's just- oh I don't know. An urge?” You scoot forward. “So can I?”

He chuckled, “Who am I to say no to you?”

Minutes later, you’re still squishing his cheeks, gentle pinching and you just giggling. Cuteness aggression, he realized midway. 

His cheeks are beginning to hurt, but he sees the wide, pleased smile on your lips and the giggles and Zhongli decides to let you continue for a few more minutes. 

Xiao – pre relationship

You had a strange friendship with the yaksha.

Most of your hangouts were quiet moments at Wangshu Inn. There were barely any words exchanged, just nods, the occasional small gift passed between you out of… something. Fondness, maybe. You weren't entirely sure if Xiao was simply tolerating your presence or genuinely wanted you there.

That changed the day he caught you staring.

You were perched on the balcony railing, feet swinging lazily over the edge while Xiao stood nearby, arms crossed, golden eyes scanning the horizon like a statue carved from duty. And you were staring. Again. Fifth time that day, not that you were counting.

It wasn't entirely intentional. Kind of.

The thing was, Xiao had a certain look when he wasn't actively glaring at something. His features softened almost imperceptibly, the tension in his shoulders easing by a fraction, and in those rare, unguarded moments, he looked… cute.

The thought must have shown on your face.

"…What?" His gaze cut to you instantly.

You startled, heat rushing to your ears. "Nothing."

"You've been staring for seven minutes."

"Have not."

"You have." His eyes narrowed.

Yours narrowed right back.

He made a face. "What."

You looked away. Then back. Then away again, visibly wrestling with yourself over whether to say it out loud.

Xiao exhaled through his nose. "Just say it, [Name]." A faint flicker of something, possibly amusement, maybe, crossed his face.

"It's stupid," you muttered.

"Then don't."

Your lips pressed into a pout. Another sigh from him. "What is it?"

"…Can I squish your face?"

The silence that followed was long enough that you genuinely considered throwing yourself off the balcony.

"What?"

"See? Told you."

"Squish my face?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I don't know! You just look really squishable right now!"

Another pause. Longer this time. You gave it a beat before peeking through your fingers.

Xiao was staring at you with that flat, unreadable expression, and you braced yourself for judgment. Then you noticed it. The tips of his ears, faintly, unmistakably pink.

Your own embarrassment evaporated on the spot. "Oh my Archons. You're embarrassed."

"I am not."

"You are—"

"I am not."

"Xiao—"

A hand extended toward you. He turned his head slightly to the side, jaw set, and after a stiff pause, muttered, "…Make it quick."

You stared. "…Really?"

"Before I change my mind."

You scrambled over and cupped his face in both hands.

You squished.

He went rigid immediately with the posture of a cat deeply regretting a decision, but slowly, reluctantly, the tension left him. His cheeks yielded under your palms as you grinned up at him like you'd won something.

Minutes passed.

"…Are you done?" he mumbled.

"Nope!" The flush had crept from the tips of his ears all the way down to his cheeks now, and you beamed at him, which somehow only made it worse.

You decided, privately, that this was the greatest day of your life.

After that, the dynamic shifted — less silence, more you talking while Xiao listened with the patience of someone who had lived thousands of years. A yapper and her reluctant (friend) audience. It wouldn't stay that way forever, but the rest of that story was still a long way off.

Diluc – established relationship

You noticed it while helping out at Angel's Share. 

You’d always offer help whenever you could because it also meant you would have time to hang out more with your boyfriend, and you staring isn't as uncommon. 

Diluc was behind the counter — sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, expression set in quiet concentration as he worked through the glasses. A completely normal sight. One you'd seen plenty of times before. Maybe it’s the look of pure concentration on his face, or just the way his brows furrowed in concentration, or maybe because he looked unfairly handsome doing something as mundane as cleaning glasses.

Whatever it was, you couldn't stop looking.

Eventually, Diluc sets down the glass, slowly, and his voice comes out as an amused, low murmur. "...If you're trying to burn a hole through me with your eyes, it's not working."

You nearly dropped the mug in your hands at suddenly being called out. "Oh."

He turns to you,  raising a brow. "Oh?"He echoes, lips twitching in amusement. 

You coughed. “Nothing. Nothing. Uhm. Nothing at all.” 

"Hm."

You avert your gaze and try returning to work. Thirty seconds later, you were staring again.

Diluc set down the glass he was polishing. Again.

"You're doing it again."

"Sorry."

"Why?"

You open your mouth. Close it. "...Your face."

The cloth stilled on the counter. "My face." He repeats slowly, looking at you like you said something strange. Which you really did.

"Your face." The corner of your mouth pulled up despite yourself.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing."

"Then why are you staring?" His eyes narrowed, and the heat crawled up your neck before the words came out before you could stop them. "Because I want to squish it."

Silence. You became very interested in the mug in your hands.

Diluc stared, and then you hear it. Diluc let out a sound—barely audible, over almost as soon as it started. His gaze dropped to the counter for just a moment.

You looked up, and gaped. "You laughed."

"I did not."

"You did!"

He picked the cloth back up. "...Perhaps."

"You're laughing at me."

"I am."

"Rude."

He wiped the already-clean glass once. Set it down. Then leaned forward slightly across the counter and just — looked at you.  "Go ahead."

"What?"

He lifts a brow, then slowly, you reach forward. Took his face in both hands, pressing until his cheeks bunched under your palms. 

The red-haired, perpetually composed owner of Angel's Share, looked adorable with his cheeks squished like that.

You dissolved almost completely, shoulders relaxing as you smiled widely.

Diluc straightened up the moment you giggled, and cleared his throat already rethinking his decision. "This was a mistake."

"This is wonderful."

"I disagree." He mumbled.

You squished harder.

He let you.

Kaeya – Pre relationship

Kaeya noticed you staring and turned with that signature smile, slow and devastatingly deliberate. "Careful, sweetheart."

"Hm?"

"Keep looking at me like that and people might think you're in love with me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes, but the twitch at the corner of your mouth gave you away. "You wish."

"I know."

You threw a napkin at him. He caught it without looking, then turned the full weight of that stupidly pretty grin on you, and — There it was.

That urge. Again.

You stared. He stared back, head tilting slightly. "…Why are you looking at me like you're planning a crime?"

You gasped. "That's exactly it."

"…Excuse me?" Kaeya’s eyes widened slightly, looking like he regretted the question.

"I want to squish your face."

A beat. Then the grin spread wider, posture relaxing, his word  unhurried and deeply satisfied. "Oh?"

"You look too smug."

"I am smug."

"I know. It's a problem."

"And your solution," he said, "is violence?"

"It's affection."

"Those are concerningly close together for you."

You lunged.

He dodged, laughing out loud, already backing away — and what followed was a full lap around the tavern, Kaeya weaving between chairs with the ease of someone who had definitely done worse, his laughter bouncing off the walls the entire time.

Eventually, after considerable bargaining and at least three threats, he let you catch him. Stood still, chin slightly raised, expression insufferably gracious — like he was doing you a favor.

Your hands landed on his cheeks.

Squish.

His grin stretched wider, and you’re too focused on squishing his cheeks that you miss the way his eyes softened at you.. "Happy?"

"Very."

"Good."

Before you could savor it, his hands came up and found your cheeks.

"SQUISH."

"Kaeya!"

"Now we're even."

You were absolutely not even.

The squishing war that followed was mutual, immediate, and completely undignified.

Thoma - Established Relationship

The first time Thoma noticed you staring, he thought he had something on his face. The second time, he assumed his hair was messy. The third time?

"...Okay, what is it?"

You blinked. "What?"

"You've been looking at me for ten minutes."

"Oh."

He waited. You kept staring.

"…Oh?"

You tilted your head, expression somewhere between thoughtful and suspicious. "Can I ask something weird?"

His smile brightened immediately. "Always."

You pointed at him. "Your cheeks."

"…My cheeks."

"They look really soft."

Thoma laughed — warm and easy, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "What kind of observation is that?"

"The truthful kind." You squinted. "I think if I squished them, they'd be very squishy."

The smile somehow got wider. "You want to test that theory?"

"…Can I?"

He leaned down without hesitation. "Go ahead."

Your hands found his face immediately.

They were soft. Incredibly soft.

You made a noise — involuntary, high-pitched, completely undignified.

Thoma burst out laughing, shoulders shaking under your palms, which only made the squishing better.

"Living up to expectations?"

"Better than expectations." You kneaded his cheeks with the grave focus of a scholar mid-breakthrough. "Remarkable."

"I feel like I'm being studied."

"You are."

"Should I be worried?"

"A little."

He laughed again and let you continue — secretly convinced that your delighted, thoroughly unhinged expression was far cuter than whatever had set you off in the first place.

One eye cracks open immediately.

You snort. "There he is."

A groan rumbles out of him, low and aggrieved, before he drops his face back into his arms. "'m resting."

"You're sleeping on a desk."

"Resting."

"Your neck is going to ache for a week."

"Future Varka's problem."

You roll your eyes so hard it's nearly audible. Moving behind him, you set your hands on his shoulders — and immediately feel it. Knots layered over knots, muscles wound tight as rope, the kind of tension that comes from too many battles and not nearly enough sleep.

"You're exhausted."

"I'm fine."

You press your thumbs in anyway.

The sound that escapes him is immediate. A low, involuntary rumble, like a mountain deciding to settle. Caught entirely off guard by his own relief.

"Thought you were fine."

"I am fine."

"Mm."

Another press earns another sound. His shoulders begin, slowly, to unknot beneath your hands. The rigid line of his back softens. The room quiets. It’s the kind of quiet that only comes when something very large finally stops moving.

"…Varka?"

No answer.

You lean forward. The man is asleep again, breathing deep and even, the crumpled report fluttering faintly with each exhale. Your lips twitch into something softer. Amused. And you pull away from massaging him.

This time, when you gently coax him upright and steer him toward the couch, he doesn't argue. Doesn't even fully wake. He simply lets himself be guided, dropping onto the cushions with the full, boneless weight of a man who has been running on fumes for weeks.

You settle beside him. Your fingers find his hair, brushing through it slowly, and with every gentle movement, you hum a soft note. A lullaby known to all, and Varka doesn’t point it out.

He shifts, and without opening his eyes, the giant of a man gravitates toward you, head settling closer to your lap. His body relaxes, like the addition of your voice had effectively calmed him down.

"You know," you hum,  more to yourself than him, "most knights don't need this much convincing to rest."

A sleepy exhale. Then, quiet and unhurried: "Most knights don't have you."

Your hand stills in his hair, completely taken off guard at his words.

His eyes doesn't open. The soft smile that curves his mouth, slow and unguarded, tells you it wasn't accidental.

Not long after, Varka is deeply, finally asleep — head heavy in your lap, the tension gone from every line of his face. For once, the Great Grandmaster stays still long enough to actually rest.

You let him.

Flins

Flins insists he isn't tired.

This would be considerably more convincing if he hadn't yawned five times in the last ten minutes.

"That was six."

"Was not."

"I counted."

"You miscounted."

You stare at him flatly. He stares back with the composed, unbothered expression of someone absolutely certain they're winning this argument — and then yawns again.

The silence that follows is tremendous.

Flins points at you. "That one was your fault."

"My fault." You ask, amused.

"Your presence relaxes me." He says it completely without shame, like it's a simple statement of fact rather than the most audacious deflection you've ever heard.

Heat climbs to your cheeks before you can stop it. Flins catches it instantly, because of course he does, and the smug smile that begins to form is frankly insufferable.

Then another yawn splits it clean in half.

You laugh. "Come here."

He eyes you. "Why?"

"Just come here."

Suspicion sharpens his gaze. Still, and perhaps that's the most telling thing,  he obeys, dropping onto the space beside you with the careful nonchalance of someone pretending they weren't going to do it anyway.

The moment he's close enough, you draw his head down gently onto your shoulder.

He goes rigid. "…What are you doing?"

"Helping."

"Helping." He repeats.

You roll your eyes at his suspicion. "Helping."

A huff. Quiet, unconvinced. But he doesn't pull away.

You give it a moment, then let your fingers drift into his hair. Once, slowly. Then again. The rhythm settles into something easy, unhurried — and you feel the shift happen gradually, the stiffness leaving his shoulders in increments, like something wound too tight finally being let go.

"…This is unfair," he mutters.

"What is?"

"You know exactly what you're doing."

You smile. "Maybe."

Another minute passes. Then another. The room breathes around you, soft and still, then quietly, you start humming. Enough for him to hear, his breath hitching slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. No quip. No teasing observation. No sardonic commentary delivered just to have the last word.

You glance down.

Flins is asleep. His face is tucked against your shoulder, expression open and unguarded in a way you almost never get to see — no sharpness to it, none of the careful composure he wears like a second skin. Just him, soft and still and finally resting.

It's rare enough that you hold your breath a little, not wanting to disturb it.

Then he shifts. His hand finds yours in his sleep — and without waking, without hesitation, he laces your fingers together.

You're effectively trapped.

Somehow, you don't mind at all.

Illuga

Illuga doesn't rest. Or rather — he knows how. He simply treats sleep like an inconvenience to be scheduled around, something to endure in the narrow gaps between responsibilities rather than something owed to himself.

Which is why finding him awake at an unreasonable hour isn't unusual.

What is unusual is the state of him.

Dark circles bruise the skin beneath his eyes. His posture has taken on the particular rigidity of a man running entirely on stubbornness. Even the way his gaze moves across the page of his book looks labored, like focusing has become a conscious effort.

"How long have you been awake?"

He doesn't look up. "Not long."

"Illuga."

A pause. The page doesn't turn. "…Two days."

You nearly choke. "Two days?"

"There was work."

"There is always work." You cross the room. "Sleep is also work."

"I don't think that's how that functions."

"It is now."

Before he can construct a rebuttal, and he would, he always does, much to your chagrin, you reach over and lift the book cleanly from his hands.

The look on his face is immediate and deeply offended. "That's mine."

"I know."

"Give it—"

"No."

The stare he fixes on you is the kind that makes seasoned soldiers reconsider their life choices. You've always found it more impressive than frightening. You pat the cushion beside you.

"Sit down."

"No."

"Sit."

"I said no."

You exhale slowly. Then, quieter, "Please?"

Something shifts. It's subtle, but you've known him long enough to catch it. The way the set of his jaw changes. The single breath he takes before his eyes cut away.

He sits.

You don't say anything about it.

Instead, you let the quiet settle before you raise your hand and begin carding your fingers through his hair, slowly, with no announcement and no ceremony. Just the same rhythm, over and over, unhurried.

He stills completely.

You keep going.

Whatever argument was building behind his eyes seems to dissolve before it can take shape. The rigidity in his shoulders, the practiced tension he carries like armor — it loosens, degree by degree, as if your hands are the one thing his control doesn't have a defense against.

His eyes close. Open. Close again, heavier this time.

The battle he's waging against sleep is honestly impressive. He's losing.

"Rest," you say softly.

"I am."

"You're fighting it."

A quiet exhale through his nose. "…I have responsibilities."

"They'll still be there after a few hours." Your fingers move through his hair again, slow and steady. "I promise."

Silence. Then, so gradually you almost miss it, his head tips sideways to rest on your shoulder.

Neither of you acknowledge it. You simply continue, fingers tracing the same gentle path, the room falling quiet around you both. His breathing deepens. The last of the tension drains out of him.

Eventually, it evens out entirely.

He would never mention it later, the way he had completely fallen asleep because of you. He would probably wake with his usual composure restored and his expression unreadable, like nothing had happened at all.

But the last thing he registers, just before he goes under, is your voice, low and unhurried, singing a low lullaby, something warm woven into the quiet of the room, made entirely for him.

He pauses in his cleaning, fully turning his head to look at you. 

"....Pardon?"

You just smile sweetly at him. "Can I smash one of the wine glasses?" You repeat, your hand reaching out to grab one of the wine glasses nearby.

Diluc is quick to take the glass away from you and quietly lets out a laugh at your pout as he shakes your head.

"No, my dear, you may not." He carefully puts the wine glass back in its cupboard. "However, you may join me in a picnic at Windrise, should you want to."

He sees the way you brighten up. "Wait- really? Oh my archons, yes please. I've been so bored out of my mind the past ten, thirty minutes."

You hop off the bar stool, and Diluc fixes the glasses behind the counter. You are hopping from one foot to the other, and Diluc thinks that he should have suggested the picnic earlier.

Though watching you lose your mind out of boredom was a bit entertaining.

XIAO

The thing about spending time with Xiao is that the silence is never uncomfortable.

It simply is. A constant, familiar thing — the kind that sits between two people who have learned each other well enough that words aren't always necessary. You'd grown used to it. Appreciated it, even. 

Which made it all the more unfortunate that you'd been sitting on the Wangshu Inn balcony for the past twenty minutes with absolutely nothing to occupy your hands, your eyes, or the increasingly unhinged corner of your brain that activated specifically when you had too much time and too little to do.

Xiao stood nearby. Keeping watch, as he always did — arms crossed, golden eyes scanning the stretch of Liyue beyond the balcony with the quiet vigilance of someone who had been doing this for thousands of years and had not once found it boring.

You envied that, a little. Because your brain is beginning to fry, and you really envy how Xiao doesn’t seem as bored as you feel at the moment.

Your legs swung idly over the edge. You stared at the drop below. And then, as these things tend to happen, a thought arrived. And who are you to not say it outloud?

"Hey, Xiao."

He doesn't look at you, but his attention tuned into you, with the way his posture straightened just slightly. "Hm."

"If I jumped from here—" you peer down with the casual curiosity of someone considering a mild experiment "—how many of my bones do you think would crack? Out of 360."

The silence that followed was a different kind than usual.

You glanced over.

Xiao was looking at you. Not his usual sidelong glance, not the subtle shift of attention you'd learned to recognize, but he was looking at you, with an expression that sat somewhere between a glare and something that, on anyone else, you might have called alarm. 

"...The human body has 206 bones."

You blinked. "What?"

"206." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Not 360."

A pause. "...Oh."

"Yes."

"Huh." You look back down at the drop, genuinely digesting this. "I was way off."

"That," Xiao says, with the particular tone of a man who has lived millennia and still finds himself unprepared for you specifically, "is what concerns you about what you just said?"

"I mean, the other thing's not happening, I was just thinking out loud—"

"Stop thinking out loud."

"I can't help it, I'm bored—"

"Then find something to do."

"There's nothing to do." You pout, and a muscle in his jaw moved. He looked away, back toward the horizon, and for a moment you thought that was the end of it — Xiao had a talent for closing conversations like shutting a window. 

Then, without looking at you, he said, quiet, a little stiff, but softer, the way he always sounded when he was offering something he hadn't quite figured out how to offer: "...I'll spar with you."

You perked up immediately. "Really?"

His gaze flickers to you, his head tilting slightly, “Yes, really. Do you want to or not?"

"Yes," you said, hopping to your feet perhaps a little too quickly. Xiao's gaze tracked the movement with the automatic vigilance of someone who had just watched you contemplate jumping off a balcony and was not yet fully over it.

He turned without another word, and you fell into step beside him, thoroughly cured of your boredom.

Though, privately, you thought it was a little funny — that out of everything you'd said, the thing that bothered him most was the wrong number.

You didn't mention it, because your attention has moved on to enjoying your boyfriends presence.

KAEYA

The thing about Kaeya is that he thrives in the atmosphere of Angel's Share.

The noise, the clinking glasses, the low hum of conversation — he moves through all of it like it was built specifically for him, which you sometimes suspect he believes. He looks perfectly at ease leaning against the counter, swirling his drink, the picture of a man entirely in his element.

You, on the other hand, have been sitting here for twenty minutes with nothing to do and an increasingly dangerous amount of thoughts forming in your head. Because it’s either you sit here, or leave, and you don’t like the latter because you’d much rather be with Kaeya– despite your growing boredom.

Kaeya notices the look on your face. He's been noticing it for the past ten minutes, watching the gears turn behind your eyes with the patient amusement of someone waiting for a very small fire to start.

"You have a look," he says.

"I have a look?"

"That look." He gestures vaguely at your face. "The one that means you're about to say something I'll either find funny or deeply concerning– and it’s usually out of boredom–"

You open your mouth. "...Can I steal your eyepatch?"

Kaeya stills.

Then, slowly, the grin spreads across his face — not his usual charming one, but the genuine one, the slightly disbelieving one that means you've actually caught him off guard. "...Come again?"

"Your eyepatch." You lean forward on the counter, resting your chin in your hands. "I just want to try it on. For like, ten seconds."

"Absolutely not."

"Five seconds."

"No."

“C’mon, Babe—"

"The answer is still no."

You slump dramatically against the counter, and he watches you with that same grin, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. There's a pause where you're both just looking at each other.

Then he sighs. It’s the the performative kind. Dramatic, long and suffering, then he leans forward to meet you at eye level.

"Tell you what." He tilts his head, something conspiratorial flickering in his eye. "Beat me at a round of cards, and we'll talk."

You sit up immediately. "Deal."

Kaeya already has the deck in his hand.

You lose spectacularly. He cheats, obviously. You accuse him of cheating. He looks offended in a way that confirms he absolutely cheated.

The eyepatch stays on his face.

You do, however, end up thoroughly entertained for the rest of the evening, which you suspect was his plan from the very beginning.

KAZUHA

Your boyfriend is, by nature, a peaceful person.

He finds contentment in the small things — the way the wind moves through the grass, the particular quality of afternoon light on water, the sound of his own flute carried out across an open deck. He is, in short, the kind of person who is never bored, because the world always has something quiet and lovely to offer if you know how to look.

You are not currently looking.

You are lying flat on your back on the deck of the Alcor, staring straight up at the sky, and you have been doing so for the last fifteen minutes with the vacant expression of someone whose brain has fully vacated the premises.

Kazuha is seated nearby, reading, and has been glancing at you periodically with the soft, patient expression of a man who finds you genuinely endearing even when — especially when — you are doing absolutely nothing.

"You've been quiet," he observes, turning a page.

"I'm thinking."

"Mm." A pause. "About what?"

You're silent for a moment. The ship creaks. Somewhere above you a seagull calls.

"If I rolled off this deck right now," you say thoughtfully, "do you think I'd hit the water or the side of the ship?"

The page stops turning.

Kazuha looks up.

You're still staring at the sky, expression completely placid, as though you just commented on the weather.

"…That's what you're thinking about."

"I'm bored, Kazuha."

He closes his book slowly. There's a quiet beat where he just looks at you, something warm and amused turning at the corner of his mouth, before he sets it aside and rises to his feet.

"Come with me."

You turn your head. "Where?"

He's already offering you a hand, the wind picking up around him the way it tends to, like it recognizes him. "The view is better from the bow. And—" a small smile, "—I'll play something, if you'd like."

You take his hand and let him pull you up.

"You're only doing this because you're worried I'll actually roll off the deck."

"I'm doing this," he says, lacing your fingers together as you walk, "because you're bored, and I have the means to fix that." A brief pause. "But also yes, a little because of the deck thing."

You laugh.

He squeezes your hand, and the wind follows you both to the front of the ship like it always does — like it's just as fond of the two of you as you are of each other.