°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Not that he consciously intended to keep count; it was rather an instinct—or a habit rather. Military life, after all, had taught him to keep track of days as missions had beginnings and endings, reports carried dates, and deployments were measured in months. 

Though, despite three months of being trapped—your words, not his—in a property under both of your names for the sake of security, slipping quietly into memory as time went by, your campaign against him had yet to show any signs of slowing down.

If anything, it had evolved.

However, unfortunately for your side, Stanley genuinely enjoyed watching you try. 

He had seen numerous soldiers, especially cadets, start off their career with pure determination—yet, none of the ones he had seen could compare to the one you carried.

Every triumphant smile that appeared whenever you thought you had finally cracked the code intentionally dimmed down every time he simply answered with “Of course, your highness” or worse, “Anything else, your highness?”

The offended look that came from you afterwards never failed to earn him a snicker. Sometimes, a genuine laugh. 

Front row entertainment or whatever they say.

Though he had never admitted it out loud, he had long concluded that your attempts resembled less of a battlefield and more of an artist endlessly revising the same painting in hopes of making a difference.

Always adding another brushstroke, another color—to which they translated to: always scheming and trying.

Yet none seemed to work, perhaps because he simply enjoyed seeing the scowl, often followed by a flying object aimed at him. Still, he admired his wife’s persistence.

The estate, in return, quietly adapted to the rhythm the two of you unknowingly established. A rhythm that consists of orders, dry remarks, pillows flying across the room, and something that was unexpected—laughter.

Though as the days went by, the seasons changed. The soft warmth shifted into something colder. The skies grew heavier over the following weeks, and clouds lingered longer than before until the first rainfall. 

And soon enough, the estate found itself wrapped in the familiar sound of the rain, the same way it constantly carried the sound of your voice as you called for him.

Except, every time the rain arrived, so did you. 

Stanley had to accept that fact. However, that didn’t mean he wasn’t against it. 

“You done yet? The rain’s getting heavier.”

You barely turned around to look at him, hands occupied with arranging buckets, a watering can, and anything else that could hold the falling liquid.

“No. You can head back inside if you want to.”

He found himself standing behind your crouched figure, umbrella in hand to cover the two of you. Despite the umbrella, there were droplets of rain caught on the ends of his hair and droplet stains on the back of his shirt as he tilted the umbrella towards you, shielding you completely from the rain.

He had long learned that you weren’t planning to bring one the second he found your arms filled containers. Collecting rainwater for the indoor plants was the excuse you gave him. And honestly? He wished you ordered him to do it for you instead.

The Secretary of Defense had entrusted him with protecting his daughter from stalkers, kidnappers, and every threat imaginable.

However, he wasn’t warned that one of the most persistent dangers would turn out to be the individual he had to protect.

Stanley exhaled through his nose, mentally questioning if his wife was trying to rival his infamous stubbornness 

“No.” He repeated your answer. “You sure you don’t want me to do that instead?” 

You turned your head to face him, eyes catching sight of his knitted eyebrows, a slight scowl of concern on his face. A hum, followed by a small giggle of amusement, escaped from your lips. “What? Don’t tell me waiting in the rain is something your high competence can’t handle.”

He let out a small scoff. “It’s not the rain.”

“It’s the part where you’re chasing a fever with open arms.” 

The way his voice sounded so matter-of-fact had you giggling louder. 

Stanley should’ve known that it was not just about collecting rainwater. 

As a week of full rain went by, he found you standing at the edge of the porch, eyes gazing over the gardens soaked by droplets of rain.

The rain had gone softer this time, unlike the one that rattled windows and turned skies into a battlefield of thunder such as the previous night. 

You had silently disappeared after lunch, and now he found you standing far too close to the edge, willingly welcoming the droplets that had reached your figure.

He called out your name, his footsteps becoming louder as he walked towards you.

You turned around with a grin as he came to a halt. “Hm, thought I could get out of your watch a little longer.”

“Clearly it wouldn’t have ended well if you did.” He replied instantly, eyes scanning your figure. “What were you doing?”

“Admiring nature?” You raised a brow. “We have quite the garden, y’know?”

“We do.”

You tilted your head, confused. “...And?”

“And you're going to get soaked if you continue to stand there.” 

His reply made you look down at yourself, noticing the droplets scattered across your sleeves. 

You blinked up at him. “It isn't even raining that hard.” 

You noticed how he resisted the urge to sigh. “It doesn't have to.”

With narrowed eyes and folded arms, you let out a small huff. “I thought you were assigned to protect me from actual danger.” 

Stanley met your gaze evenly, unimpressed. “I am.” 

You spread one hand towards the rain. “And where, exactly, is the actual threat or danger here?” 

He didn't hesitate, taking another intentional step forward. “You.” 

Your brows instantly knitted together. “...Me?” 

“You have a very impressive habit of becoming your own greatest safety concern,” he deadpanned. 

You stared at him in disbelief. “Are you calling me a safety hazard again?!” 

“You keep proving my point.” 

“That's an insult!” You shot back. 

He exhaled slowly, taking the umbrella nearby as he noticed the rain starting to get heavier. 

“The assignment doesn't end at preventing kidnappings.” His tone remained flat, yet there was an unmistakable firmness beneath it. “Keeping you alive includes keeping you healthy.” 

You blinked in disbelief. “...Wow, are you a physician too on top of the many things you can do?” 

“Nice joke,” He deadpanned once again. 

You clicked the roof of your tongue. “Five more minutes?” 

“No.” His reply came instantly. 

You groaned, acting as if you were going to follow his order when your next actions clearly indicated otherwise. However, before you could take another step down the porch, an umbrella shadowed over your head.

Immediately, you looked up and met his unwavering gaze. And for a split second, you couldn't help but think of how warm his eyes looked—a striking contrast against the cold weather that seemed to match his personality halfway. 

Then, he extended his free hand, causing your gaze to drop down. 

“Come inside.” 

His voice sounded calm, far from what you expected. It wasn't an order nor a request. It was simply the quiet certainty of someone who had already decided that this conversation was over. 

You sighed dramatically, though the corners of your lips betrayed you. “You're no fun when you want to be, Stan.” 

Still, you slipped your hand into his. Only for a brief moment, that is. Just enough for him to help you step over the rain-slick stairs of the porch. 

And enough for you to feel how firm, large, and oddly grounding his hand was.

And truth be told—much to his dismay—you did in fact give yourself a fever. Happened to be the very moment the staff had taken their days off. 

Hence, Stanley was left to deal with the consequences he tried so hard to avoid. 

However, a fever was something he was quite unfamiliar with, considering he rarely had one throughout the years. He could recall having one as a child simply because everyone else in his family did, and that was it.

He could barely recall any other time he caught a fever.

Which is exactly why he found himself on a call with Xeno, while trying to keep his now asleep, fluffy, dramatic cat still in bed. 

“You interrupted my work with the urgency of a national emergency…” The scientist paused for a brief moment. “Because your wife has a fever?”

Stanley could clearly hear the disbelief mixed with amusement in the tone of his best friend’s voice. It was as if he had yet to hear anything greater than what he was summoned for. 

“Ain’t my fault my immune system wasn’t built to mimic a Victorian child’s.” He spat out flatly.

“Indeed,” A soft chuckle crackled through the speaker. “And it appears you are only now suffering the consequences of such remarkable genetic fortune.”

Stanley raised a brow, eyes glancing at your figure for a brief moment. “...Consequences?”

“You have spent years without so much as a memorable fever,” Xeno continued. “Which consequently means you’ve never had the opportunity to learn how to care for yourself with such conditions, let alone another human being who isn’t blessed with your biologically unreasonable immune system, Stan.”

Stanley’s brows knitted in an unamused manner. “I know how to take care of people, Xeno.”

“In combat,” the scientist was quick to add. “Gunshot wounds, field triage, and coordinate an entire battalion without breaking a sweat.”

Another pause, “Unfortunately, none of it appears to have prepared you for a wife with a fever.”

Stanley swore that he could see Xeno smiling behind the line.

“You sound utterly out of your depth, Stan. How fascinating.”

The captain merely dragged a hand down his face. “She kept refusing to stay in bed until her fever spiked up to thirty-nine degrees.” 

“I assume it’s due to the fever making her physically unable to?”

Stanley hummed in response, walking back to the edge of your bed. “She still tried to get up once after it spiked.”

Xeno’s laugh slipped through. “Oh, Stan, you are not battling a fever at all.”

Another laugh was heard. “You are battling your wife.”

Stanley quietly exhaled, eyes remaining on your sleeping figure tucked beneath the comfort of a light blanket. “...Unfortunately.”

“My condolences.” 

He ignored Xeno’s reply; his hand reached out, brushing the stray strands of your hair back, allowing the band of his hand to feel your warm forehead.

His brows furrowed once again, “Still hasn’t gone down, Xeno.”

On the other end, Xeno found his lips curling upward as he sensed the shift in Stanley’s voice. Concern unintentionally slipped without him knowing. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it barely there; it was audible in a way that had the scientist entertaining hypotheses. 

However, he chose not to voice it. Not yet; it was simply too early to. 

“How long ago did you give her the medication?” 

Stanley glanced at the clock. “Fifteen minutes.”

Xeno blinked, “...Then you are worrying far too early.”

He pushed his glasses further up. “Antipyretics are not miracles, Stan.” 

“I know.”

His reply had Xeno raising a brow, amusement evident in his voice. “Do you? Your actions clearly contradict.”

Xeno had to cover his mouth to prevent another loud laugh from escaping. “Please do not inform me that you’re glaring at a thermometer.” 

Stanley replied flatly, “I’m not.”

“Stan,” Xeno’s voice continued to carry his amusement. “I assure you that you’re managing the situation well. Ensure she remains hydrated, allow the medication sufficient time to work, and refrain from keeping her bundled up in heavy sheets.” 

Then, a small smile appeared on his face. “You know, Stan…this is the first time I have heard you sound impatient over something that was not my ‘ramblings’ and military bureaucracy.”

Stanley merely let out a loud exhale. “Drop it.”

He heard another chuckle. “As you wish, I’ll leave you be. However, do note that the bet has yet to slip away from my mind.”

And before Stanley could reply, Xeno ended the call. 

What a supportive best friend, Stanley thought.

The first thing you became aware of was the cool sensation resting against your warm forehead. 

It wasn’t cold, just cool enough to cut through the unpleasant warmth that had settled over your entire body. 

A quiet groan escaped your lips as your brows knit together in confusion. The pain wasn’t like the gruelling pain you experienced before losing consciousness; it felt better in a way, yet not completely. 

Your eyelids fluttered open, only to squint tight again as the afternoon light entered your vision.

The room seemed to sway slightly before coming to focus. And then— you noticed him.

Stanley sat on the edge of your bed, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hands gently adjusting the damp towel he’d just placed across your warm forehead. 

His attention instantly shifted the moment your eyes opened, his brown-golden eyes meeting yours. 

“Welcome back.” 

You blinked once, eyes still adjusting to the new sight of him. Then, your voice came out weaker than you expected. “...Hi.”

Despite the heavy feeling that settled through every muscle of your body, you attempted to sit up. And immediately, you realized that was a terrible idea as pain shot through.

A soft groan escaped from your lips, brows furrowing harder than before.

Then, you felt Stanley move, hands holding you still in a manner you didn’t realize he was capable of. He placed a pillow behind you for support, adjusting the cool towel on your forehead.

“Easy, your fever hasn’t completely vanished.” 

You didn’t say anything—and for a moment you couldn’t quite tell if it was because you were too weak to or because your fever had stripped away whatever stubbornness that usually kept you upright. 

It felt strange. His touch wasn’t warm; it had always felt cold, as if his fingertips held ice before making contact with yours, especially now against your burning skin. 

Yet somehow, it anchored you. 

Somewhere along the way—you couldn’t quite tell when exactly—Stanley Snyder had unknowingly built himself into the definition of safe inside your mind. 

Perhaps you were simply overthinking it, as you were too weak to move away or let out a complaint. 

Perhaps it was because that had been the purpose of his job since the start. 

Or perhaps the number of times he’d simply been there to answer your inconvenient orders. 

Whatever the reason was, you wished it wasn’t the latter because the thought of the latter frightened you by a fraction. 

Stanley reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “Drink.”

Your thoughts snapped into reality as you gazed upon the glass of water in front of you. 

With both hands, you accepted it. However, you only realized how heavy the glass was halfway through lifting it.

Stanley, of course, noticed it before you did. 

Without saying a word, his hand came underneath yours, steadying the glass until you’d taken careful sips. 

The moment you leaned back, he took it from you and placed it beside the bed again. 

You slowly raised a brow after noticing his unwavering stare. “...Do I really look that terrible right now?”

You failed to notice the faint twitch of his lips. Stanley’s gaze scanned your feverish state, pale skin and lips, your slumped posture, and sunken eyes. “You look sick.”

“I am sick.” You frowned again.

The twitch became more visible. His eyes glinted with the familiar amusement he hadn't carried since the first sign of your fever. “I wonder whose fault that is?”

Your face instantly fell in betrayal. “Wow, couldn’t even spare my sick self from your blunt meanness?” 

He raised a brow this time, crossing his arms across his chest, the rolled sleeves revealing the muscles and visible veins caused by years of military training and discipline. 

“Tried to stop you multiple times, didn’t I?” 

You gave him a weak glare. “Not my fault I wanted to take care of the plants I got, which were gifts, by the way.”

Stanley tilted his head slightly. “From?”

“Mom and Eli.” 

“You’ve got an impressive number without considering the outdoor ones.”

“Well…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Mom started it.”

“She thought the house looked a little empty two years ago.” You added. 

Stanley blinked once. “So she bought plants?”

“So she bought plants.” You confirmed by repeating his words. 

“At first it was just a few. Then she’d come home from work with another one every other week because she thought it would look good in the living room…or anywhere with a good amount of indirect light.” 

A quiet laugh escaped despite your fever. “Then she randomly decided half of them were my responsibility the second I said they looked nice.” 

A snort came after the thought of the memory. “There was one time she brought home a collection of Fittonias, and I thought they looked interesting, and she was like, ‘Which ones do you like the most?’ and they became mine after a minute.”

Stanley remained silent, though the corners of his lips kept twitching as he listened to your rambles. 

“They kept throwing a fit during the first few weeks—I genuinely nearly killed half of them before I figured them out; I think I nearly threw one out.” 

A snort finally escaped from his lips, earning a glare from you. 

“Hey, I’m talking about my unfortunate moments here.”

His shoulders shook harder after noticing a decorative pillow within your grasp. 

“...Wasn’t expecting houseplants to be a source of stress.”

“Very funny, Stanley.” You tiredly rolled your eyes and gave him an unamused look. “It still ranks below Dad’s job though.”

Stanley caught the shift immediately. “That sounded bitter.”

You gave him a small shrug. “It was supposed to.”

The tone of your voice merely gave him the tip of the iceberg, yet it was enough to tell him what he needed to know for now. He could tell your reasons must be personal; hence, he didn’t attempt to pry in. 

For a moment, there was silence. It wasn’t the awkward type that settled in—no, it was the comforting type. 

Your eyes wandered back towards him. “How long was I asleep?”

“About two hours.”

You gave another slow nod in response, feeling your body grow heavier again. 

“You should lay back down while your mother is on the way.” Stanley’s hands found your figure once again, helping you lay back down comfortably. 

You frowned. “...Mom’s on the way? But she has a fashion event in New York today.” 

His hands adjusted the cool towel again. “Had.” 

His eyes met your confused, tired ones. “She wrapped it up early after I called.”

“...She did?” A wave of guilt washed over you.

Your frown deepened as the thought settled through. “I ruined her schedule?”

“No,” His answer came instantly. “You got sick. And I was ordered to call her first if anything happened to your health.” 

“Seriously?” 

He simply nodded. “Your father’s with her.”

A groan escaped from you the second Stanley said those words. “A lecture’s on the way too? Amazing.”

He snorted at your response. “Unlucky.” 

You sent him another weak glare. “Yeah, my luck’s been amazing since a certain number thirteen appeared in my life.”

His laugh grew louder as he shook his head. “Blaming me again?”

Your eyes narrowed at him. “You’re supposed to defend me, Stan.”

“I’m supposed to keep you alive.” He corrected. “And I’m powerless against your Dad; I simply follow orders.”

“...Traitor.” 

An amused snort came out this time, his lips curling into a small smile. “It’s called following orders and not rebelling, unlike a certain someone, your highness.”

A soft protest escaped, yet you found the corners of your lips lifting despite yourself. 

Then, you felt your eyelids grow heavy again. 

“...Stan.”

“Hm?”

Your eyes searched for his gaze. “...Stay.”

“...That’s an order, by the way.”

His eyes found yours; the corners of his lips threatened to curl wider. “I figured.”

Satisfied with his response, you let your eyes drift shut again. 

The second Stanley received the message from the guards at the gate, he was already on his feet before the vehicle could reach their home. 

The moment the familiar pair stepped inside, Stanley could clearly see the worried expression written across your mother’s face. 

“Where is she?” The question arrived before the greetings could.

“Sleeping upstairs.” 

“Has her fever gone down?”

Stanley gave a brief nod. “Still there, but lower than earlier.”

That was all she needed to hear. Without another word, she headed upstairs. A mother responding to instinct, to habit, to years of experience. 

Silence followed as it were only Garrett and Stanley in the foyer.

Garrett loosened his tie slightly, eyes scanning over Stanley’s figure. Then, he let out an amused snort. 

“You look terrible, Stan.”

Stanley raised a brow, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Weren’t you stuck in a briefing with your favorite generals?” 

“Was. Had them stop their useless arguments after my assistant received your call.” 

Stanley returned the snort. “Must’ve been unfortunate to be stuck in the same room as those incompetent idiots.”

Garrett raised a brow, amused and surprised by his response. “Enjoying the benefits of your new job?” 

Stanley didn't answer, though the faint twitch of his lips was enough evidence for the Secretary of Defense to form a conclusion. 

Silence settled between them again. Then, they found themselves standing outside of the door, gazing ahead at the driveway. The sun was starting to set, reflecting over the small puddles of rain. 

Garrett had his hands in his pockets, gaze drifting back towards Stanley. “You know, I think this is the first time I met you without smelling like tobacco.” 

Stanley glanced at him, a hand instinctively reaching for his pocket where he usually stored it. That was when he realized the packet remained sealed. 

“Haven't had the time.” He reasoned casually. 

The veteran let out a quiet hum. “That's unlike you, Stan.” 

The captain merely shrugged. “Was occupied.” 

“Sure you were.” 

Another silence stretched between them. 

Garrett had known Stanley since his first achievement. A newly deployed, young soldier who seemed to have shaken the system with fear of what he was capable of. He knew he wasn't the type to neglect routine—habit. 

Reports were always submitted on time, equipment always remained maintained, even his smoke breaks found a way to seep through his hectic schedule of responsibilities. 

Yet today, his box of cigarettes remained sealed with plastic, and caged in his pockets. 

“You should've informed me that your daughter is a safety hazard.” Stanley's voice cut through the silence this time. 

He received a laugh from the veteran. “You're only finding that out now?” 

Stanley simply shook his head. “No. Realized it the second she couldn't wait for me to grab the bottle of vanilla after I said to wait.” 

Garrett raised a brow. “Did she get hurt?” 

Stanley was quick to reply. “Of course not.” 

A smile formed on Garrett's face. “Well, it seems you're doing your job quite well, Captain.” 

Stanley merely shook his head “I'd rather not make a habit of catching her before she falls.” 

“She's still trying to ruin your reputation?” Your father's smile widened.

“Every day.” 

Time went by smoothly after that. The familiar topic of assemblies, briefings, and operations seeped through their conversation easily. Perhaps the talk about certain soldiers bled through far too easily. 

The sound of footsteps caught both of their attention. In unison, they both turned, catching sight of your mother, who seemed to be trying to keep a smile down. 

She turned to Garrett. “It seems that your daughter is really sick.”

He raised a brow, clearly noticing how her words contradicted her facial expression. However, before he could reply, she turned to Stanley, a smile breaking through her defenses. 

“She's asking for you.” 

The two of them came to a short halt. Utter confusion and silence settled for a moment before Garrett barked out a laugh, looking far from a government official and more of a downright delighted father. 

“Oh, that's priceless.”

Stanley sent him a firm glare—ultimately forgetting that he was his superior for a moment. 

Your mother attempted to keep her smile from growing wider, yet the amusement in her eyes shone far too evidently. “She's complaining about your disappearance after she asked for you to stay, muttering something about not following orders.” 

Garrett turned to Stanley, “She's asking for you, Stan.” 

Stanley frowned slightly, “I don't see how that's amusing.” 

Your mother's gaze found his. “She never asks for her bodyguards. If anything, she prefers a distance at all times.”

“She tolerated them while trying to get rid of them, nothing more.” Her gaze softened, “This is the first.” 

She gave Stanley a warm smile. “She seemed to be grumpy about you not following her order.” 

Garrett let out another laugh, the sound quieter this time as he shook his head. “She’s really giving you a run for your reputation, isn’t she, Stan?”

Stanley answered with nothing more than a slow exhale through his nose. His gaze lingered on the doorway leading back inside, his thoughts briefly returning to the room upstairs. He had initially assumed that you’d want time alone with your mother. 

Apparently, he had misjudged that.

“You should head back upstairs before she issues another complaint.” He said, amusement lingering beneath his voice. “You’re good at following orders, aren’t you, Captain?” 

Stanley shook his head once, though a faint twitch threatened the corners of his mouth. “...Seems I don’t have much of a choice.”

He excused himself and headed back inside, footsteps fading across the foyer before disappearing up the staircase.

Your parents simply watched him walk back inside with knowing gazes. 

“From trying to crack his skull with a lamp to asking for him, huh.” Your father exclaimed softly as he leaned against a pillar, sounding rather satisfied than amused. 

For months, he couldn't help but feel the guilt eating him alive, running through every stream of his blood and thoughts. He knew what he did was irrational and couldn't help but think if his role as a worried father could even justify what he did. 

His wife hummed beside him. “Perhaps you were right about him.” 

“I've known him since he shook the whole department with fear. He unintentionally earned my trust.” 

His gaze lingered towards the staircase where Stanley had disappeared to moments ago.

“She trusts him as well.” Your mother added, her voice tinged with realization and acknowledgement. 

For a moment, your father remained silent, processing the weight of your mother's words. 

Then, he gave a small nod. “More than I expected.” 

A soft chuckle escaped him as he shook his head. “Probably more than both of them realized.” 

A faint smile tugged on the corners of his lips. You had spent years treating every bodyguard the same: respectful enough to acknowledge them, distant enough to remind them they were temporary. 

The flirting merely provided an opening for a report; the line between personal and strategy remained. Not once did you rely on them, search for them, or ask them to say. 

Yet somehow, number thirteen had found a way to blur the lines unintentionally, to cross the borders you've set, the walls you've created. 

“She's safe.” Your mother confirmed slowly. “As long as she's with him.”

He believed it too. Not because Stanley was the most capable soldier under his command, but rather because he saw the evidence first-hand. 

Garrett exhaled quietly. “Perhaps I can finally slow down on wondering whether I made the right decision.” 

“She probably still has a grudge against you and your legal team, though.” Your mother let out an amused laugh. 

He let out an exaggerated groan. “I thought she would've found Clause Thirteen funny.” 

His wife merely gave him an amused sigh. “Clearly not, dear.” 

Bonus: 

After more than an hour of waiting inside of his car, Stanley finally received the text message he had been waiting for. 

Fluffy, dramatic cat

Stannn, I'm done. 

Without waiting for a second longer, he stepped out of his car and locked it before walking towards the pottery shop. 

You had told him a week ago that you wanted to try pottery after finding out that there was a newly opened shop that offered lessons; however, you didn't want him to come in with you for a quite suspicious reason. 

Apparently, you had a surprise for him. 

The moment he entered the shop, his gaze found you eyeing the pots displayed neatly on the shelves, holding a paper bag with both hands. 

The sound of the entrance door opening caught your attention. Instinctively, you turned around and were met with the sight of your pretend husband. 

Your face brightened evidently, and Stanley couldn't tell if that was a good sign or not. 

You walked up to him with a grin. “Did I make you wait for too long?” 

He simply shook his head, hands reaching out for the paper bag within your hold. “Not at all.”

Stanley was used to staying still in one position for hours; the waiting time you gave him felt like nothing compared to what he used to do. 

The walk back to his car was short. He opened the passenger seat door, allowing you to step inside. However, as he was about to close it, you reached out for the paper bag. 

“I want to hold it.” 

He didn't question you. Instead, he carefully placed the paper bag on your lap. Afterwards, he turned to enter the car from the other side. 

“Stan,” You gave him an excited and eager smile. “Can I show you my surprise before we head home?” 

He tilted his head. “I can't tell if I should be worried with that grin on your face.” 

“Oh c'mon,” You smacked his arm with a force that had Stanley confirming your hits were getting harder. “Surprises are supposed to be good, aren't they?” 

“Depends on the person.” He rubbed the spot you hit moments ago. 

You shot him a quick glare before you reached out to open the sealed paper bag. After going through layers of packaging for the prevention of damage during transport, you held up a mug. 

However, it wasn't just any mug. The design of the mug was a chibi face of Stanley—the accuracy was hilarious in the terms of adorable.

Stanley stared at the mug in your hands. Then at you, then back at the mug. For a second, there was silence.

Then, his eyes narrowed, and his brows furrowed. “Is that supposed to be me?” 

The question came out so genuinely that your composure completely shattered. A laugh burst from your lips before you could stop it. 

“Yeah—” You wheezed, clutching the mug and your stomach at the same time. “Isn't the resemblance amazing?” 

“It's concerning.” 

His response made you laugh harder. 

Stanley noticed your grip around the poor ceramic loosen. Before gravity could claim it, a familiar hand caught your wrist and the mug with practiced ease. 

“Careful.” 

He took it from your hands before you managed to drop the very thing you'd spent the last few hours working on. 

“You're laughing way too hard,” he pointed out

You waved him off, trying—though failing—to speak normally. 

“I—I’m sorry—” You burst out into giggles again. 

“No, you're not.” 

“I know, right!” You clutched your stomach again while laughing. 

Stanley sighed quietly, though the faint curl of his lips said otherwise. His eyes remained on you for a moment longer before turning the mug in his hands. 

The details were honestly concerning. You had even painted his impossible long lashes, his purple lips, and even a cigarette. 

He rotated the mug again and found an engraving of words. 

Knight with a Frying Pan/Rapunzel wannabe.

He genuinely couldn't tell anymore if he should be insulted, impressed, or amused. However, it seemed the latter was winning. 

“...You made this?” 

Your laughter finally stopped, softening into a grin. “I did! Took forever to paint your lashes because my hands kept shaking and I wanted them to be perfect.” 

“Why?” 

“You would've noticed the shaky lines, Stan.” Your response came out genuine and soft. “Wouldn't want that.” 

Your reason had him come to a brief halt. “You thought I'd noticed?” 

You tilted your head in return. “Of course? You notice everything, Stan.” 

Something in his expression shifted faintly. Something both of you were completely unfamiliar with. 

Before the silence could remain longer, your grin widened. 

“Wait—” You reached out for the paper bag again. 

“I made another one.”

Stanley watched as you carefully pulled out a second mug, one that looked unmistakably like you. 

He didn't say anything. Instead, he reached out for the mug and rotated it, looking for an engraving of words, except there was none. 

“You didn't write anything on it?” 

You shrugged your shoulders, grin remaining. “I thought it looked accurate enough.” 

He returned the mug in your hands, a faint hint of amusement began to pool in his eyes. “Walking safety hazard would've topped it off.”

Your grin fell instantly as a sharp glare was sent in his direction.

“I'm not a safety hazard!” You jabbed his side, clearly annoyed. 

His amusement grew deeper, “Like I said, you keep on proving my point.” 

You sent him another sharp glare. “I'm taking my surprise back.” 

You reached over to snatch the mug back; however, he simply raised it higher, just out of your reach. 

“Isn't this supposed to be mine now?”

Your glare hardened as you stretched your arms further. Your seatbelt, which he buckled for you, unfortunately restrained you. 

“Stanley Snyder!” 

He tilted his head, a teasing smile plastered on his face. “Yes, your highness?” 

Oh, he was getting way too comfortable with messing with you.