Lohen stood up and went out, only to find you leaning back on the wall of the building, your eyes closed while holding onto your stomach, trying very hard to hold it in. Your flushed cheeks were noticeable in the moonlight, as well as your dizzy expression. Lohen found it absolutely adorable, especially the way you were so vulnerable at this moment.

Wait, what?

Lohen shook his head before going over to you, leaning beside you as he peeked at your face.

“Caaaap, don’t you look great?” Lohen teased you, making you open your eyes and meet with his. You sighed as you heard his tease, your head going back against the wall.

“Not right now, Lohen…” You mumbled to him, your hand going through your hair to soothe your headache. “Why’d you leave Varka? He’s gonna complain later..”

“Varka’s a grown man, he can handle being by himself for a few minutes. Besides, I think he’d just find another unlucky knight to listen to his stories,” he said, earning a small smile from you. “And I think a little bartender inside is starting to get worried, you know.”

“Master Diluc?” You uttered under your breath, trying to straighten out your thoughts.

“Mmmhm. He looked like he was five seconds away from snatching your wine,” he told you with lilt in his voice, playful in his nature. “You look like you would’ve defended that bottle with your life, given how bored you were. That’s rude, y’know?”

You were startled that he caught on to your boredom– but then again, this was Lohen you were talking about. It was annoying how perceptive he was. You couldn’t get a moment’s peace with him at all.

“I don’t think Varka noticed… Did he?” You doubted yourself, looking at him. Then, you let out a breath that smelled of wine, your hand combing through your hair. “Ugh, I feel sick…” You complained, your eyebrows furrowed.

"Wouldn't you want to sit down if you’re feeling dizzy, Captain? I must say, you have less survival instinct than me, and that’s saying a lot,” Lohen said, going to see if there was an available chair from one of the tables set up outside the tavern.

“No thanks, I feel better standing…”

“That’s stupid, Cap.”

“Lohen–“ He didn’t listen to you, grabbing your wrist to make you sit on the chair, not noticing how your face grew significantly redder at his boldness.

“Rude…” You said, immediately leaning on the table for support. He sat right beside you, undeniably close, just in case you needed some support. Just in case.

“You’re sooo red,” he said playfully, a smile on his face as he stared at yours, watching your face become flustered. “Are you sure you’re alriiiight?” He knew you were, but he couldn’t help but tease you. It was basically second nature to him.

Although, your reaction was far from his expectations.

In your drunken stupor, you chuckled at his attempt at a joke, leaning back on your chair, a small smile on your face. He watched your expression as you laughed, the same light from the moon that highlighted your flushed face also making you seem so ethereal right now. He couldn’t help but smile too. He didn’t realize his face became red as well.

Your head landed on the corner of his chair, unbearably close to his shoulder. He wondered why you hadn’t just rested your head there. It was much more comfortable, he’d say.

“Should we go back inside?” You said softly, looking up at the sky from your position. “I feel like he’s going to tease us when we go back in, though,” Lohen laughed at your comment, inconspicuously moving closer so your head was on his shoulder.

“Sounds like him. Do you want to go in? I quite like the breeze right now,” he couldn’t be any more obvious that he wanted to stay there, even for a little while longer, with you. He thanked the archons above that you were drunk beyond saving.

“Mmm… No, not yet… I like it here,” you said, slurring your words as you got comfortable on Lohen’s shoulder. If he weren’t flustered already, now he was malfunctioning. Lohen sighed, leaning his head on top of yours with his face buried in your hair, savoring your presence.

“Yeah? You like it riiight here? With me?” He tried to get more out of you, that mischievous smirk back on his face like it was a permanent feature on him.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Lohen,” you said, smacking the back of his head with your free hand, the other resting on the table. He laughed at your action, smoothing over the place where you had hit him.

“Is this how a captain disciplines their officers?” He muttered almost flirtatiously in your hair.

“Don’t phrase it like that!” He laughed at your words, his fingers subconsciously going through your hair. It felt almost relaxing.

“Alright, alright! Calm dooown, won’t you? You’re already drunk out of your mind, do you wanna make it worse?”

“Shut up, Lohen…” Your reprimanding tone earned another chuckle from him, going quiet. He lifted his head from yours, looking down at your face. He didn’t realize he’d been staring for too long, not until you looked up at him and caught his gaze.

“…What?” You asked, confused on why he was staring at you. He looked away just as quickly, his face crimson.

“…Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious, cap! Won’t you believe me?”

“Why would I ever?" You both laughed, completely forgetting about the Grand Master inside the tavern, probably chatting up the uninterested bartender. He watched your face, at how you just looked so comfortable with him.

You chatted like that for a while, not noticing the time pass by as the stars in Teyvat’s sky seemed to shine a little bit brighter, your laughter filling up the empty streets as your feeling of sickness started to subside.

He had a feeling then, that he wanted to feel like this every day, and that he wanted to feel it with you.

৻ꪆ – Childe

The Fatui’s gala always included very powerful figures from all over the nation, which would become useful in the Fatui’s future plans.

Childe was dressed to the nines in a suit that was tailored just for this occasion, a charming smile on his face as he entertained the guests on behalf of the Tsaritsa. He was easy to trust. With his charisma, you wouldn’t even guess that he was a harbinger, it didn’t match him at all.

You watched from afar, drinking the champagne that the servers had given you, not wanting to mingle in with the crowd yourself. You merely observed them, seeing façade after façade of the most powerful people of Snezhnaya. It was clear how uninterested you were, almost wanting to sneak out and enjoy your solace instead.

Childe finished his conversation with a duke from another nation, excusing himself as he saw you, looking too good for his own liking. He walked over to where you were, your eyes following his tall figure.

“How are you enjoying this, comrade? Up to your standards?” He asked you, getting a glass of wine from the tray of the server.

“It could be better,” you said, not trying to hide how utterly bored you were. You swirled your champagne around on your glass, looking through the crowd.

“Not liking it much, are you now?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t, but your face tells me all I need to know,” he saw a server holding some pastries he knew you liked, calling them over and getting two. “Eat up, comrade. Or is this not to your liking too?”

You huffed a smile at his words, eating the food in small quantities. “Demanding as always, Childe?” he hummed at your question, eating his own.

“No ‘Ajax’ today? I can never get used to you calling me that, comrade,” he commented on your use of his title, a smile on his face. You set down your glass, looking up at him.

“Official business means official titles. I can’t be caught being unprofessional with the Tsaritsa’s weapon of war now, can I?” You flashed him a smile, mirroring his own.

“You do have a point there, comrade,” he agreed, setting down his food on the plate. He thought for a bit, a hand on his chin. “Then why don’t we get out of here? What do you say?”

You thought about it for a moment, like you were even considering staying here. You nodded after a few seconds, letting Childe drag you into a private part of Zapolyarny palace where guests weren’t allowed. He’d make an exception for you.

The wind from the palace terrace made you feel at ease despite Snezhnaya’s harsh weather, glad to be away from the stifling crowd of masks and elegant gowns and suits. You and Childe leaned against the railing, taking in the scenery from high above.

“So…” Childe started. “Still calling me my title or what?”

You looked at him, his hair blowing in the direction of the wind, messing up its style.

“Do you dislike it that much?”

“Not at all! I’m just not used to hearing it from you, that’s all,” he explained to you, scratching the back of his head. He sighed, admiring the sight of the city… and you. He stared at you for a moment, your outfit perfectly fitting you and matching the theme of the gala. Safe to say, he was absolutely enamored by you.

“Staring is rude, Ajax,” your soft voice snapped him out of his trance, returning to his charming persona. You chuckled at his sudden shift. You said his name with such familiarity and warmth, it made him feel something he shouldn’t. You looked back at the city below.

“Can you blame me when you look radiant this evening, comrade?” Childe had a bad habit of buttering you up every chance he got. Yet, every time, it makes you blush and look away. It was one of the things you could never get used to with him.

“You flatter me.”

“Is it flattery if it’s the truth?” You thought he was joking, almost laughing before you properly looked at him, stopping yourself when you saw how serious he was.

“…Not technically, no,” you said, feeling hot all of the sudden, despite the cold. Since when was he like this?

He noticed your flushed out face, furrowing his eyebrows. “Are you okay? Is it too cold out here?” He asked, pressing the back of his palm to your forehead to check your temperature. You blushed even harder, turning away to avoid his gaze as you nodded.

He shrugged off the coat of his suit, wrapping it around your frame to somehow shield you from the cold.

“Let’s go over there. It’s warmer,” he said, catching your wrist as he pulled you under the shade of the palace. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks, Ajax,” you said, looking up at him. Only then did he see how his coat fit you and how you looked so comfortable in it. Wow, you looked so…

He didn’t continue his thoughts as he shook his head, watching as you let the coat hang off your shoulders.

“What are you thinking of right now?” You saw how he kept on zoning out when he looked at you, thinking deeply— or maybe not thinking at all.

“…That you look beautiful today,” he said suddenly, in such a tender and meek way— unexpected from that of a harbinger— catching the both of you by surprise. His eyes widened as he processed what he just said, smiling to cover up his embarrassment. “Ah, I mean– uhm…” He stumbled on his words, looking away.

“Thank you, Ajax,” You chuckled as he fumbled, seeing him cover his face with his gloved hands. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“You say that like you’re being forced to,” he said, a small pout forming on his lips.

“I’m serious! You look good tonight,” you reassure him, a lighthearted smile on your face. “Not that you haven’t heard that today, anyway,” you added, adjusting his coat on your shoulders.

“I like hearing it from you better than those people. They just want something, most of the time,” he quietly says. You hummed. Being a powerful figure in Snezhnaya yourself, you understood where he was coming from.

“Some of the maidens inside seemed pretty interested, Ajax. You really don’t want to test your chances?”

“However interested they are, comrade, I’m even less interested. Besides, I’m too busy for that,” Childe clarified, his head leaning back on the wall.

Just then, from inside the palace, the music for the cotillion portion of the dance started.

“Are you sure you’re still not interested?” You asked him teasingly, looking at the window that could overlook the hall of the gala. “They look like they’re looking for you,” you said, seeing several damsels look around the hall for a ginger-haired harbinger.

“…Well, maybe I am a little bit interested in dancing with one person,” Childe mumbled, not looking at the window, but rather at you. You saw in the reflection of his gaze, tearing your eyes away from the gala and looking up at him. A sudden realization dawned upon you, but you didn’t comment on it.

“You should ask them to dance, then, no? It’s a waste of a good night,” You said.

“Hmm, okay…” He turned to you, offering his hand. “May I have this dance, then, comrade?” He asked you, his eyes shining in the night, a smile on his face. He looked relaxed and composed, but if you knew him more than the mask he wears, you’d know how nervous he was right now.

But all his thoughts went away when you smiled at him, putting your hand on top of his. “You’re quite the sweetheart, aren’t you, Ajax?” You said it like you expected him to ask you. How could you be so calm right now?

He pulled you closer into a dance, his hand on your waist, while his other supported yours. He started to sway you around, following the beat of the music that leaked from inside. In that moment, he couldn’t deny how enchanted he was by you.

Thirty minutes passed since you started dancing, your head rested on his chest as your steps began to become more minimal. Childe was basically hugging you at this point, his hand on your waist keeping you close. His chin rested on top of your head, the hands that held each other dropped to your sides, yet still enclosed. It all felt too natural for two people who worked with each other.

“Why not dance with people with actual influence, Ajax? I feel like you’d benefit from that better,” you said quietly.

“Influence on what?”

“Y’know, the Fatui… Connections and stuff like that,” you explained, looking up at him. He looked down to see you. He hummed in thought, his hand on your waist moving to tuck your hair behind your ear.

“…Well, what about the one who has an influence on me?” He questioned softly, spinning you around when the music called for it. Just then, you landed close to his face, and you saw him look at your lips, and back to your eyes. Childe sighed then, pulling you closer to hug you, trapping you in his arms as he hides his face— which was currently blushing profusely— into the crook of your neck.

“What’s wrong, Ajax?” You asked gently, hugging him back in an attempt to comfort him.

I think I love you.

He was so, so tempted to just tell you, to risk your companionship, to risk you.

But, he didn’t. As much as he claimed to love you, he couldn’t, in a thousand years, imagine his life with you if he chose to risk it all.

“…Nothing,” he mumbled into your neck, letting himself savor your presence. Yeah. This was fine. This was enough for him.

᯽ – Wanderer

Nahida had assigned him on an important paired assignment a few months back, with his very willing partner— you.

You and Wanderer were complete opposites. He had a permanent scowl on his face and an aura that could scare away scholars from his mere glance. While you were one of the few people that grew to know how caring he was really like.

Recently though, your research paper with him was going downhill faster than the fall of a certain fatui harbinger, previous scholar! (Not that he cares.)

You were stressed to a tee, and it wasn’t helping that your partner had a habit of cramming like a maniac and getting things done right before the deadline. The results of your research didn’t match your hypothesis at all! Nothing also aligned with the papers you’ve already seen with similar topics. Your professor was really going to fail you now…

You were hunched back on the table, books, quills, and parchment paper placed in an organized mess that covered the entire table. Your hands were dirty with ink and papercuts were a common sight to you now. Meanwhile, a certain puppet calmly wrote on a scratch, looking as composed as ever.

While you… How could he even begin to describe you? You looked like you hadn’t slept in days— in this case, was true— and your hair stuck out from all directions because of how much your hand went through it in habit.

“Calm down, won’t you? Before you get permanent wrinkles on your face. You don’t wanna look worse than you already are, do you?” He said to you arrogantly, putting down his quill and turning his attention to your form.

You sighed, fixing your posture, your head in your hands.

“Just ‘cause you’re a puppet doesn’t mean you can say that about humans, y’know,” you commented halfheartedly, not in the mood to argue with him and his annoyingly pretty face.

“I’m just saying it like it is.”

“Maybe try focusing on the paper more than me, huh?”

“How can’t I focus on you when you look like an absolute mess?” He crossed his hands as he leaned back on the chair.

Maybe it was the late hour getting to you, or maybe it was the fact you were months into this and you were nowhere near finishing it, but you just couldn’t deal with him!

“Look, if you’re just gonna stay and bitch around, just leave. I can do more by myself and with you hanging around and doing nothing,” you couldn’t deny that the stress was definitely affecting your words and actions, but you felt unapologetic then, hyper-focused on the project that was due in a month.

Wanderer sighed. He wasn’t a stranger to the moments when you’d lash out on him, knowing it wasn’t really him you were angry with. He knew there was no use trying to get you to calm down when you were upset.

“Fine. But when I come back, you better have cooled off,” he said, standing up and leaving you in the library. Ugh, how annoying could he get?

You continued to work for a while, still stuck on the same thing.

You didn’t realize how much time had passed until Wanderer came back, this time with a cup of your favorite drink and some food from Puspa Café. He returned to your side, placing the food on the table and the coffee in front of you. You glanced at it, putting your quill down.

You stayed silent, suddenly feeling very bad about what you said to him earlier. He didn’t respond, watching as you drank the coffee, then sighing.

“Next time you do that, I’m dropping you as my partner,” he threatened, grabbing the paper you were working on before he arrived. You didn’t think much of his threat, seeing as he’s said several times before and yet, here you were. Still there.

“Sure…”

“I’m serious.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, leaning back on your chair, sighing deeply.

“Stop that,” he said suddenly, reading through what you wrote. He annotated on it, correcting your mistakes and adding his suggestions.

“Stop what?” You looked at him, now eating the food he’d gotten you. It was only now did you realize that you hadn’t eaten anything that day, and it was already late.

“That sighing. You’re so stressed, it’s getting bothersome.”

“It’s not my fault that this paper just can’t seem to cooperate!” You defended yourself, a frown on your lips.

“You’re not going to be able to control what the outcome of this study is. That’s why it’s research, you study it and see why it’s that way. So stop stressing your pretty little head and calm yourself before you break down,” he said.

“…You suck at comforting people, Hat Guy,” you mumbled, covering your face with your hands again, before taking a deep breath.

“I’m just telling it like it is. It’s not like you're going to fail because of that. I won’t let it happen,” you hummed at his words, finally looking at him.

“…Thanks.”

“For what? Not letting you fail? We share a grade, you know. If you fail, I fail,” he explained, crossing his arms.

“For dealing with me. I know I can be too much sometimes,” you admitted, your fingers fidgeting on the paper cup of your coffee.

“Sometimes?” He said mockingly, raising his eyebrow.

“Fine, all the time. Stop interrupting me,” you couldn’t hide the exasperation in your voice, your hand going through your hair once more.

“Continue then, Your Majesty,” little shit.

“Never miiind,” you said, taking back your words of appreciation. Your smile still held a certain weight that you tried to hide from him, that his words and actions still weren’t enough to calm the storm.

You both continued to work on it, yet the pressure was getting to you. You couldn’t solve the issues in your study, and when you did, you would find another problem that was hard to figure out. It was exhausting you, both mentally and physically.

Wanderer saw how the stress was building up again, evident in your frown and your overall state. By now, the library was almost empty, save for the few scholars who were also working on their own research papers.

You were so, so close to breaking down, and Wanderer noticed it before you did.

In your stress, you didn’t realize you had started tearing up, the tears dropping onto the parchment you were writing on, smudging the ink of what you wrote.

“Ugh, shit..” you exclaimed quietly, wiping your eyes. It proved to be useless, seeing as your paper quickly became stained with tears.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong? What’s bringing this on, huh?” Wanderer exclaimed in a surprisingly soft tone, wanting to reach out but not knowing if should. Carefully, he guides you to lean back on your chair, his hand on the back of your chair as he went closer to you, observing the way you avoided his gaze.

“I just… I don’t understand what I’m doing wrong… It’s so annoying…” You said through your tears, desperately trying to cover yourself in embarrassment. Wanderer pulls your hand hide away from your face, wiping your wet cheeks with a spare handkerchief he had.

“It’s okay. Just let it all out,” he says with such an unfamiliar tone, you couldn’t believe you were talking to the same person.

You quickly tried to compose yourself, your deep breaths turning into shaky sighs. Wanderer whispered comforting words to you in the quiet of the night like it was second nature to come to your aid.

“It’ll get better, okay? Don’t let it consume you whole. It’ll be okay, I promise,” he mumbled to you, waiting patiently for you as your tears finally dried, leaving you exhausted.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” he said with such kindness. You wouldn’t expect it from the ice-cold scholar from the Vahumana Darshan. No one would.

He talked tender words to you for a few minutes, warmth blossoming in his chest. It was ironic that he could feel that way. But it reminded him of how human it made him.

It surprised himself that he didn’t think twice to comfort you and make you feel better. He knew that he wouldn’t do that for anyone else. No way.

You were the only exception.

As you two spent some minutes in comfortable silence, he realized one thing. He liked making you feel better. He always wanted you to feel good, even at the expense of his own convenience. It wasn’t like him at all.

“Feel better?” He asked you, rubbing your back to sooth you.

You nodded in response, still sniffling. “Yeah, I’m sorry again—“

“Don’t. Don’t say anything. Just feel better,” he realized then, that when the words came out before he could process it, that he felt something different with you.

He wouldn’t feel this warm feeling if comforted anyone else. He was sure of it. He knew he wouldn’t feel the need to ease their worries like he did with you.

He didn’t know what this feeling was. He should consult Nahida with it.

You shift from your seat, feigning skittish. “Did my morose pique the curiosity of the grand performer? Or are you simply worried?”

“Neither.”

“What a benumbed reaction, Anaxa—“

“—goras.” He finishes for you. Usually, whenever he’d add on your behalf, you’d combat it with a snide but today, he’s left with nothing but silence. This made him look up from his instruments and papers, your lack of reactions made him forgo his current experiment.

It made him almost worry, almost.

He sighs instead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing is the matter.”

“You’re quick to lie to me,” Anaxagoras is now facing you, laying a hand on his hip. “That seems like something.”

The way he conducts his questions is making you want to be defensive with your petulant behavior. “Even if something is on my mind, I don’t see why I should be telling you about it.”

“Maybe you should, because if I can find some way to help, your mood would lift, no?”

“Since when have you cared about my moods?”

Silence then.

“Are you aware of what the principle of correspondence is?” Anaxa mutters out and you have the urge to exhale.

“Please spare me a lecture…”

“As above, so below, as within so without.” The professor starts nonetheless. “Everything around us is a mirror that reflects a projection on both our inner and outer manners, think of the relationships as interconnected roots of trees or simply dendrites. It’s the simple work of magic tricks—human behaviors more so than divinity at play.” Anaxagoras approaches you, the chains of his eyepatch filling the slowness of the room.

He levels his face with yours and from your position, you can clearly anatomize the fullness of his eye from here—the hollow of mint with a cut of boysenberry in the center, glowing beneath long lashes.

He continues, “even if I’m half-dead as what that titan said, I can still feel your vibrations and stress, an internal conflict, it’s making shoddy trembles of my glass flasks on that desk.”

“How does that even—“

“Your feet.” Anaxa finally says. “You were unconsciously tapping your feet.”

Oh.

You lay your palms flat on your knees, an unconscious manner.

“I apologize.”

“So you have the decency to apologize and yet not speak your mind further?”

The silence is indefinite yet present. It shallows over at every retort that spills in between both your stubborn tongues.

You shake your head. “You’re difficult.”

His eyes narrow. “You are the one being difficult, actually. I offered help, you refused, I asked about your well-being, you dismissed me.”

“You should consider how your candidness makes it exceptionally hard for me to be open to you, maybe think about that.” You bite back at him, the tension threatening to spill over. “You’re the last person I’d want to go to whenever I have worries, so just simply drop it for today. I’d have to apologize for my lackings, I'll provide you with better companionship and arguments when I’m feeling well.”

“…Truly, I didn’t mean to come off as heartless—“ but you’d already brush past his shoulder before he can fully explain himself like he’d always have, leaving Anaxa to his bubbling vessels, untidy scrolls and a heavy sigh.

Much to his dismay instead of the privacy that he wishes after that argument, Cerces appears just as you vanish from his sight, a liquidy chuckle slipping past their lips. “Sometimes, I even wonder if your heart died along with you, child of humanity.”

“I’d rather you keep silent while I work.” Anaxagoras distastefully returns back to his apparatuses, more quiet and solemn than before.

“You should give chase.” Cerces suggested instead. “That child was simply worried.”

“Worried?” He finds the titan’s words as credulous. “Did you not see the flush of anger directed at me? Besides, I’m preoccupied right now.”

“You say you’re preoccupied and yet it’s you who seem quite distracted. Are you curious about their source of trouble?”

“It’s nothing new, arguments like that. We’ve known each other long before you ever knew me on my deathbed so back off.”

When he’d state his intentions clear, the Titan of Reason—unfazed in their countenance—leaves the professor to his own bearings and he finally has room to breathe.

Your relationship with him has always been rocky. Arguments and walking outs weren’t new, you used to debate about claims and theories a multitude of times back in the Grove, it was part of your dynamic, but every time he realizes belatedly how his string of words had cut you deep beyond the usual shallow jabs thrown on a daily, Anaxagoras cannot help but feel like his hollow chest is being twisted upside down.

In some way, maybe it mattered because despite the clashes and quarrels, you’d stay. You’ve stayed by him for years even after he was ridiculed as a blasphemous fool or a heretic—you’d stay even longer, waiting for him to finish lectern speeches or classes without so much as an ounce of complaint. A simple gesture that he’d been grateful of and even he admits to himself that seeing you being upset with him and his words were the least satisfying things to behold.

It did bother him but admitting that aloud to that titan was the last thing he’d want.

So after an hour or two after he knew you’d calm down, the professor drops his vials and walks down the distasteful and boisterous streets of Okhema in search of you—or more specifically, cruising over to Hyacine and asking for your whereabouts to save him the trouble of turning the Holy City upside down.

It was tempting, for the sake of bringing an irate reaction out of that woman and her golden threads, but his sick body and rational mind stopped him so.

“You are here.”

Anaxagoras has finally found you in some remote corner of the city, you were sitting shiftless above limestone, carving names upon ordinary stones. There was a spare moment in which his dull eyes sought down to you—he’d noticed how your hair is wind-swept and how strands of it stick to your forehead and the skin of your neck. The leaves of your collar are strewn as well, showing the barest hint of collarbones and almost immediately Anaxa shifts his eyes away, he’d asked what you were doing to distract himself from his own keen observations.

“Nobody will remember each scholar that perished fighting the Black tide. I’m merely writing companions I remember that I used to do thesis with, those that don’t have families here in Okhema to remember them…”

Anaxa observes you again, then after a long silence you feel him approaching closer, his shadow stretching before you. Your mind stirs in alertness, noticing what he’s up to—but Anaxa is always two steps ahead of you, before you can cease the pen laid by your side, he has already swiped it. You tried your best to wrestle it from him but Anaxa held it out of reach from you, causing you to sneer.

“Give that back. I forbid you to write your own epitaph!”

“And why not? I’ve done it once in the Grove—“

“Well, this isn’t the Grove—!“ You've paused quickly, noticing that you interrupted him. You waited for an ire to come throttling down at you but when you gaze back at him, Anaxagoras merely raises a brow at you, a faint sheet of amusement in his expression.

“Give me a stone.” He’d ask.

“No—“

“Stone.”

Your shoulders deflate at his tight tone, accepting defeat with petulance and a huff.

Stubborn man, you curse in your head. Stubborn and hard-headed and mean…You digress, ending up giving him one, laying the stone harsher onto his open palm than you intended but his expression remained amused.

When a balance of tamed silence settles, Anaxagoras is the first to speak again after writing an elegy onto the stone, changing the subject with ease.

“It's getting late, you should retire for today.”

And in response, you turn away with a quiet huff of breath. “I‘m…still not used to the Holy City's constant daylights, and I should be saying that to you, the moment you were given apparatuses to quell your complaints, you’ve been doing nothing but your experiments since you’ve arrived from your fight in Castrum Kremnos.”

“Well, thanks to your concern this ill-stricken body has been recovering. Besides, I have nothing much to do, especially when that woman’s threads are all over the place.”

“You almost died.” Your statement held more bite than necessary. For you it showed him your true feelings and for Anaxa—the answer to today’s dismay.

A laugh breaks from his lips.

“Is this why you’re upset?” There’s a hint of mirth in his tone. “You’re upset that I got hurt back at the Grove.”

You rise from your seat, meeting him tooth for tooth, jab for jab. “Is it truly hard for you to comprehend that there are people that care whether or not you’re doing well—?”

Despite your anger, Anaxa is distracted for a moment, watching the sneer on your lips shaping vowels and long consonants, almost as if you're baring your teeth at him. The sudden urge to lean down, kiss you quiet and taste those angry syllables on his teeth stirs in his mind.

The Nousporist sage is anything but a romantic, but temptation truly is a humanistic sin, what is he to be shameful for such selfishness?

“It’s not that.” He answers your spite with dullness. “My field of study has made it easy to forget about one's well-being. You of all people know that very well.”

“Anaxagoras, you could’ve died again and—“

He never wanted for you to concern yourself with him like this. Anaxagoras knew he was risking himself, the nuances of alchemy and the splitting of his soul. So how come—observing the way your expression creases with a certain type of pain that makes it seem like you were the one that felt it, not him.

“If you continue like this, I would go through the same grief of losing you like I did the first time around.”

“Don’t say that, as a Chrysos heir it’s bound to—“ Anaxa is surprised when you reach out to touch him, to dare touch him so freely and yet rebuttals fall flat on his heavy tongue. The warmth of your fingertips that brush over the coolness of his own palm, you bring his hand up to cradle your cheek with utter delicacy like you’re holding glass, it makes his mind go numb.

He is aware of the way his skin dances with the plush warmth of your cheek, strands of your hair he wishes to tangle between his long fingers—to give into temptation and drag his hand slowly down your jaw, the expanse of your neck, down your arms…

“You really should start taking care of yourself more.” Your lips murmur onto his open palm. “Maybe not for yourself, but for me and Hyacine.”

He swallows. ”…I cannot keep promises.”

And you’d feel a faint tug on his end—and that fissures the tension. You let go and he quickly lets his own arm fall back to his side immediately. There’s a part of you that was terrified at the thought of offending him, you never got into Anaxagoras’ bubble without permission, your relationship stayed at a mere arm’s length. Only quirked lips with tongues of appraisals and maybe the occasional longing stares from across large rooms were exchanged between the two of you, no shoulder brushing, hand-holding, breaths upon goosebumped necks—this was your first time ever touching him, his numbed, cold skin against your own.

Maybe your sudden approach shocked him from his nonchalance and arrogance, you’d know because for the first time since you’ve known him, Anaxagoras’ frown is an inch too deep and there’s a concerned fold on his brow.

He clears his throat, his eye looking anywhere but at you. “I need to go, I have to meet with the other Chrysos heirs at the baths today.”

Anaxa looked quite adamant to join the meeting, despite his distaste of the baths and Chrysos heir meetings.

He spares you one last look, “after you’re done with your business, you really should try to rest.”

You frown at his dismissive behavior, nodding your head nonetheless. “Alright, best of luck then.”

He’d merely nod stiffly at your reply and quickly turn on his heel. You would have let out a heavy exhale and scold yourself for touching him without prior permission—if it weren't for a certain titan that appeared before you, their brown curls turning gold under Kephale’s dawn.

“He’s quite provocative, that Nousporist sage, don't you think so too?” Cerces spares you conversation, their voice honeyed with light teasing.

“Anaxagoras’ probably born to be spiteful, so I cannot fault him for such a character flaw, we all have one.”

“You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” Cerces states and heat furnaces upon your cheek at their bold claim. Before you can find some excuse to defend yourself, they spoke again.

“So is he to you. I’ve noticed that whenever you’re around, he’s reduced to a passive child. His tongue is barely glib when you try to put him in his place and the way those sharp eyes soften, oh it reminds me of my lover all too much. It’s an endearing exchange.”

Cerces spoke their affections and you could do nothing but listen to them with a credulous expression. Anaxagoras being endeared by you? You’d try to wrack your mind of instances where you capture such a manner, but all you can remember of him was his sassiness, his dullness, his casual dismissiveness. There was no softness, endearments, fondness.

Despite being called the Titan of reason, you find their reasoning hard to comprehend.

You wouldn’t have believed them, that is until you gaze back at Anaxagoras’ retreating form in the distance and watch him closely, and closely you watch when you catch him moving his hand that you held so closely,

Observing how he flexes his fingers by his side.

There is little in this world that Ashveil does not regret.

Across Amber Eras, his mind has gathered enough sins, corpses, and broken promises to viciously haunt him every night without fail.

The loss of life. The pain he has inflicted. The betrayals. Those linger longest, rotting and resisting loudly beneath his flesh—old wounds that have never healed properly that he only covers.

What he cannot fully bring himself to regret is meeting you, for better or for worse.

Even now, knowing well he keeps inserting himself into your story he has no place in, he cannot stop returning. Your warmth tends to obstructs any rational thought, luring him back to your doorstep at least once every month like clockwork. He keeps his old watch that shows delayed time in hopes for ruthless time slowing along, but when it comes to you, he fantasizes about days passing faster just so he can find another excuse to visit your house.

The warmth of another person, while elusive, fleeting, ready to be dispersed like dandelions, is also fulfilling and solacing. It is comforting in a way nothing else in the cosmos has ever managed to, and he suspects even aeons crave it. So he clings to yours with all the starving of a man offered scraps for the first time in years, foolishly hoping that one day you might fully envelop him in your sunlight.

People come and go; Ashveil wants to make you eternal in your goodness.

Like a kicked stray crawling back toward the hand that fed it, even if just once, he drags himself to your house again today.

He knows better than to use the front entrance. Your security camera reaches the spot clearly. Slipping through the ventilation system in the back is a safer option. More humiliating, perhaps, but at least that makes him feel like he has earned a quarter of right to be here.

Bless you for choosing a house tucked into the quieter backstreets of the Duomension City instead of one of those towering apartment complexes with security systems vicious enough to rival prison architecture—even just your hypothetical neighbors would be capable of throwing a wrench into his plans, an army made of hundreds of gawking eyes.

The sight greeting him after he kicks off his shoes is comforting, even if a certain element of it strives to make him less welcome.

Your dog, some breed of rather big posture, lies sprawled across the the living room floorboards like she’s the owner here. The moment her eyes crack open and settle on him, she sizes him up with the same unimpressed stare she always gives him—as though fully aware there are currently two dogs in the house, and that only one of them is actually wanted here.

“Oopsie. Did I wake you up, Princess?” he asks in the middle of letting out a yawn himself. “Sorry about that.”

Coming here this early means sacrificing another morning of sleep, but lately, he has been missing you(r home) too much to care. The city outside keeps growing louder and crueler, and it’s your house that remains one of the few places that still feels stagnant; he keeps it warm for you as you work.

Princess’s gaze finally shifts towards the treat sachet dangling from his hand. A spark of life finally enters her eyes. Unlike him, she’d never sell herself short.

“Yes, look what I brought you!” He grins, shaking the package lightly.

But even if she can hear the rustling of dried meat inside, she only swishes her tail once. She’s that spoiled by you.

Still, she rises from the floor with reluctance, and all dignified, she approaches him to collect her bribe. Ashveil crouches in front of her, scratching behind her ears while offering the treat with the other hand.

“I know, don’t give me that look,” he mutters with a whine to it. “Your mom definitely would not approve of me feeding you.” He even calls you a dog mom now. “Or approve of many other things for that matter…” he says wryly. “In any case… I’ll have to convert you to healthier snacks soon…”

She huffs through her snout, snatches the treat between her teeth, and trots off toward the kitchen. Her tail lingers around the corner for one last second before disappearing completely.

Ashveil watches her go, his own type of hunger burning at his loins already.

He makes his way toward your bedroom, no mistake in where he’s treading. The door shuts behind him, sealing his decision.

What he appreciates most about your room is the fact that it barely changes. The same wall color you must have once talked about with embarrassing enthusiasm, the same clutter of trinkets gathered over the years, the same hurried little messes left behind before work, the same scent woven stubbornly into the sheets and curtains and air itself.

This room is always there to welcome him while the rest of Planarcadia tears itself apart outside, on race towards greatness.

Or at least, he makes himself welcome here. Some vagabond he is.

He knows every corner already, yet he still finds himself looking around each visit, searching for tiny additions or changes. They are the intimate bridge connecting you and him, enough for him to feel included. They are also a proof that your life continues moving even when he is absent from it, a scary food for thought.

At the same time, he avoids touching most of your belongings whenever possible. Partially because of evidence. Mostly because he wants to preserve you exactly as you are, frozen safely in time for him.

Albeit, today, he possesses far less restraint than usual.

After confirming little has changed—while deliberately avoiding looking for too long at one particular object near your nightstand—he collapses face-first onto your bed with a groan.

His hand finds the tissue box automatically even with his face buried deep in your pillows. One tissue missing each month surely goes unnoticed. Three, at worst. Hopefully.

Your sheets envelop him in familiar warmth exactly as anticipated, just as they do whenever stress begins gnawing through him alive again and he runs here to his sanctuary. It takes all his self-control not to burrow completely beneath the blankets and pretend you are here beside him. If he crawls fully under the covers, he fears he may never want to crawl back out—some exhausted animal hibernating itself away for winter.

He inhales deeply, catching the remnants of your shampoo, your lotion, traces of your rushed morning routine still attached faintly against the fabric. The thought of watching you tending to yourself alone makes him dizzy; you deserve all the best things.

By the time he unzips his pants, his body already feels unbearably heavy with need. It’s been so long, since he ever felt that sort of desire, most of it being subdued by years of him pushing through with little ardor.

Ashveil presses himself into the mattress with a muffled sigh, grinding down slowly against the sheets while his thoughts drift somewhere nicer… and dangerous.

Your fingers combing gently through his hair, you telling him you want him here… that he can stay. A ridiculous thought suddenly surfaces in his mind too: if he commissioned an artist to paint you saying those words, would wishpower eventually bend reality enough to make it true?

Other fantasies creep in afterward.

You calling him disgusting while he desperately insists he can still be useful to you. Your hand gripping his jaw while he promises to behave. Teeth sinking into his skin hard enough to draw blood while he thanks you for it, for he can feel the misery pour out in torrents.

He supposes that both versions have their own rights, so long their manifestations are coming from you. So do they have potential to ruin him.

As he jerks his hips for the final time, the movement shifts your mattress enough to knock something off the nightstand. Ashveil sighs and reaches down towards the floor, nearly sliding off the bed entirely from the weakness now melting his limbs.

His mouth goes dry.

Your toy lies there beside the bed, still connected to its charging cable. You either use it often, or intend to do so after longer break.

It is sordid, the way his mind immediately wanders to the obvious regions: you spread on this bed and flushed with heat, thighs trembling around the toy you force into yourself, while soft sounds spill from your mouth into the dark. Maybe thinking of someone.

Hopefully him. The thought of it being anyone else strikes him with an equally unhealthy amount of anger and anxiety.

He wonders briefly whether your preference for toys over people is intentional rather than circumstantial. From everything he has gathered, you have not sought comfort from anyone else lately. Thankfully; that would complicate everything he has so carefully built between the two of you as your ‘friend.’

Modern relationships still confuse him somewhat. People seem to fall into each other’s beds so casually, or on Planarcadia, even for the sake of livestream challenges. He is selfishly grateful you haven’t been there yet.

All the more, he believes he could do you so much better than a stranger. He knows—not thinks, knows—he could please you better than some stranger ever could. He would know exactly where to touch, where to linger, where to soothe, where to provoke.

Where to bite.

And he would let you use him however you wished afterward, too. His thoughts have ranged through every imaginable scenario over the months: you gripping his hair, your teeth buried into his shoulder, your nails opening his skin… even you taking his breath away from above him, watching him plea you for mercy.

The sheer intensity of it suddenly overwhelms him, and with desire threatening to unfurl again, he springs into movement.

Inside your bathroom, he flushes down the mess he caught into the tissue and washes his hands thoroughly.

Your mirror is cruelly bright, framed by harsh white scene bulbs that expose every exhausted detail of his face. He stares at himself for a long moment before biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, a reminder to keep going for there is still some things he owes you and other people.

Ashveil makes another empty promise. This is the last time, really. Not only because it is risky—it is rapidly not becoming enough anymore.

On his way out, he checks on Princess, she making your kitchen her playground too. Unfortunately, she has transformed the floor into a small field of crumbs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Ashveil clicks his tongue and points at the small mess she’s made. “No crumbles at the crime scene, Princess.”

The dog lifts her head wearily. Begrudging, she licks the floor clean.

“Good girl.”

Although midway through cleaning, she stares at him with suspicion.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he laughs. “You’re still the favorite. You can make a bit of space for this old man, hm?”

For a moment, he considers staying around for a while longer, maybe to watch one of your favorite movies and take a bath. Ultimately, something gnaws at him to leave sooner than usual.

He checks his phone and as it turns out, he’s right.

Walking your dog through every corner of the the city has long since become part of your routine as a responsible owner. However, Princess still gets overwhelmed easily by the fulgent lights and noise of Duomension City, so whenever you can spare time, you like taking her to slightly less vibrant Seafeld City instead, accessed through one of the train lines of Planarcadia.

There are all kinds of people to encounter on the daily walk—or non-people, quite often. Navigating the streets has only grown more difficult over the years, each district louder and stranger than the last, as though every possible sensory experience is fighting for one’s attention at once. Those neon lights burn your vision from every angle, advertisements and TV presenters speak over one another through giant floating screens, imaginae creatures drift across the artificial sky, delivery bots zip recklessly between crows, and someone is always shoving a camera against your face.

The people themselves are no less extravagant: entrepreneurs, IPC workers, livestreamers, gangsters, artists, cult members, police officers, students, and occasionally, private detectives.

Ashveil, the ace detective of the Ashen Detective Agency whom you have somehow become acquainted with over the past months, remains one of the strangest examples you have encountered yet, Even for a planet of Elation, where absurdity is the norm, he ranks high in just how odd things can get—enough to draw your curiosity.

But strange does not necessarily mean unkind.

If anything, you have found it alarmingly easy to pity him ever since your first meeting, unconsciously assigning him the image of something half-pathetic, half-endearing after only a single interaction.

Watching him struggle to pay for his food probably had not helped. Still, times are tough for everyone, aren’t they? And you are not heartless.

A friend in need is a friend indeed.

So the first time you met him in Dovebrook District—standing awkwardly between a frustrated customer and a delivery worker arguing over a failed order—you simply transferred the missing amount without thinking too deeply about it. A tiny gesture from a passing stranger should have ended there.

Instead, Ashveil accepted your kindness as something important, revolutionary even, and for reasons you still do not fully understand, it’s as if he has been trying to repay you ever since.

At this point, you have somehow acquired a deeply devoted assistant. He walks you home. Keeps an eye on whether anyone suspicious lingers nearby. Appears whenever you complain about a problem, often before you even properly ask for help. He listens to you ramble after difficult workdays with extraordinary patience, and once, after noticing you rubbing at your shoulders too much, he even insisted on massaging the tension out himself.

Safe to say, the two of you have grown rather close. Friends, maybe. In any case, you don’t have it in your heart to tell him to stop, seeing his enthusiasm.

If only you knew.

“Good morning.”

Speak of the devil. Ashveil holding his cane appears just as you cross the road toward the shopping district, weaving through pedestrians until he reaches your side with the ease of someone accustomed to navigating crowded street. He looks like he has only crawled out of fridge bed, suppressing a yawn behind his hand while blinking away the last traces of sleep, yet the moment his gaze lands on you, his attention sharpens completely.

“Morning, Ashveil,” you greet with a smile as you halt your walk on the other side of the street. “Did you get up just to see me?”

The tease slips out effortlessly. You mean nothing serious by it. After all, you texted him earlier that you managed to leave work ahead of schedule, and so now he has come to meet you. The fact he somehow knew exactly where to find you does not strike you as particularly strange anymore, even if you didn’t share your location with him. You simply assume he is a detective talented enough, just a one with abysmal commercial instincts and maybe a bit of bad luck.

Ashveil laughs immediately, a little too fast, eyes darting aside with flusher hidden beneath the performance.

“No,” he says at once, lifting his brows as though the suggestion itself is ridiculous.

Yes. Absolutely yes.

He skipped breakfast entirely and practically launched himself out of the agency the moment he saw you leaving for work through the security camera feed he absolutely should not have access to. Not that he’s tech-savvy. He had to save money for weeks to pay some dude to install this one shady app on his phone.

“I had a case this morning,” he continues smoothly, crossing his arms. “Very demanding. Didn’t even have time to grab coffee.” His voice turns dramatically mournful as he shakes his head. “Cruel world, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, what will my poor detective do without coffee?” you tease.

My detective. Well, technically you said my poor detective, but Ashveil’s mind catches on the possessive anyway.

My.

Poor is good too, admittedly. Poor sounds sympathetic. Tender.

No, no, no—pull yourself together, Ashveil.

Seriously, don’t do this to him. Don’t use that teasing voice like you actually care while meanwhile you are probably just making fun of him.

His thoughts briefly send another funny feeling into his throat this strange day.

“Ha ha ha!” he laughs again, a little louder than necessary before hurriedly redirecting himself. “Anyway. No pup with you today?”

“No. She’s probably still sleeping, buried under her blankets…”

Good. Running into your Princess could potentially create complications. He is yet to meet her officially, and he’s worried she might act too familiar with him, so he keeps telling you about dog allergy to keep her away.

You pull your phone from your bag and angle the screen toward him proudly, showing him a picture taken earlier that morning, before you’d leave for work. Princess lies cocooned beneath blankets with only the top of her head visible. “Isn’t she lovely?”

“Oh my goodness, she absolutely is…” he says with genuine delight, sounding dangerously close to squealing. He saw Princess less than two hours ago, yet somehow the sight of her grumpy face still melts him instantly. More importantly, you wanted to share this moment with him specifically, and that alone makes warmth spread unpleasantly through his chest.

However, there is an even cuter thing standing directly beside him. Because with how close you are standing, he has full access to your face too. It’s hard to not get distracted, watching the happy wrinkles of your eyes lifting.

He snaps his fingers in realization. “You look quite radiant today. New face cream?”

That explains why your pillow smelled so different this morning…

You blink at him, tilting your head, with “how did you know?” plastered all over your face.

“Well.” He shrugs with nonchalance, casually stepping back until he can lean against a nearby roadblock pole. “Detectives are supposed to notice minor details. Comes with the profession. To a discerning eye, there’s always something new to spot.”

Not that he’s as good at deduction or anything a detective would need to prosper like you think he is. It’s mostly Mr N doing important research. He's more of a hard-boiled type. But, you believing in his skills is extremely useful, so he doesn't correct you.

“Actually, it’s a serum,” you correct playfully, locking your phone. “But close enough.”

Good. Excellent even—you didn’t lie to him. It is indeed the serum's effect—he knows, considering he was standing in your bathroom this morning, staring directly at the bottle while trying not to think too hard about how you must look applying it with your gentle hands. How you’d apply for him too, willing to share. It’s simply safer not to sound too accurate in his observations. The last thing he needs is for you to start seriously questioning how much he notices about you.

Maybe all these detective tutorials he read yet barely sustained knowledge from at the beginning of his career are actually starting to come in handy—he does know you well by this point.

“Serum, cream, natural glow—whatever,” he says lightly. “You look good.”

Like, really good. Enough that he could eat you up. And you walk around, just like that? You better put a muzzle on him.

“Thank you.” You hesitate slightly before adding. “You… look well too.” You adjust your grip on your bag.

Ouch. The hesitation stings more than it should.

Ashveil snorts, waving his hand dismissively. “Ah, you don’t have to lie to spare my feelings. I know the eyebags are especially horrifying today.”

“No, I—” You look slightly panicked now, looking around as if searching for a clue. But the crowd passing by has its own business, sparing you little attention. You genuinely were trying to compliment him, but it came out half-assed. “I mean, sleeping in the fridge has to have some… beautifying properties, right?” you say it awkwardly, like you are trying very hard not to offend him. “The coldness of it.” Even if you still have no clue why he does that. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable by asking, in case it’s health-related.

Ashveil nearly laughs. He doesn’t know whether he should be offended or flattered that you tried to make him feel better.

“Sure,” he says dryly, “if your beauty standard is a product about to expire.”

You let out a nervous chuckle.

“But probably not as effective as you’re imagining,” he continues before clearing his throat slightly, visibly trying to move on before the conversation drifts somewhere sincere. He clicks his cane against the stone below his feet. “So, where are you heading? Shopping?”

You are usually still at work at this hour. Meaning if he had decided to linger inside your house even a little longer today and probably missed your text, things could have ended catastrophically wrong.

Manifesting the end of his friendship act with you.

You nod, lighting up again. “Uh, yeah. Like I have told you, work got called off because of some technical issues,” you explain with an easy grin, satisfied to catch some respite. “So I thought: why not go shopping?”

“Yeah, shopping’s always great,” Ashveil says a bit too enthusiastically, relief slipping into his voice before he can smooth it over. “Why don’t I… accompany you? I mean, strange events have been occurring lately…”

Weird folks muttering about happiness. Gang members surfing through the crowds. Streamers appearing to suffer from some sort of neuroticism as they become only more aggressive about content-making. It’s as if a wave of heat came across the planet and drove everyone mad.

“So you think I’m incapable of defending myself, detective?”

The slower flutter of your lashes paired with slight, naughty curve of your lips confuses him for a moment. You’re teasing him again, yet it seems different this time. Coy, challenging.

If he didn’t know better, he would think you were flirting with him. Or maybe you are—he does occasionally have his clients hit on him in the act of desperation. The possibility of you doing that makes it harder to breathe, and he glues his gaze onto your neck he for some reason suddenly thinks of kissing.

Let’s see: if he allows himself too much hope, it becomes embarrassingly easy to lower his guard around you—more than he has done so already—and that is never wise if he ever was wise. And yet, after all the blood and exhaustion he quietly spends in your name, surely he deserves a little indulgence every now and then.

Not that you have ever asked for any of it. But people get hurt easily in this city. He simply prefers preventing unpleasant outcomes before they can reach you, especially if it means avoiding situations where you feel smothered by having an obvious bodyguard attached to your side.

You go about your day. He ensures it remains a safe one. Simple and easy. Sure, you would probably be horrified if you ever discovered the full extent of it—not to jinx anything—but—

“Ashveil?”

Your hand settles gently on his shoulder, grounding him back to you.

He blinks, for a moment mesmerized by the worried expression directed his way. The way your warmth permeates him makes breathing more worth it. It’s no wonder he lets his guard down around you.

“Huh? Sorry.” He rubs his face, exhaling through his teeth. “I didn’t sleep well. I mean—not enough.”

“Oh… “ Your brows knit together instantly. “Then, you shouldn’t force yourself to hang around for my sake. It's simple grocery shopping. Go home and rest,” you reassure, so softly.

“Nah.” He adjust his hat, concealing his eyes more. “I’ll survive. I don’t sleep very well during the day anyway.” Those furbobo working below his agency make too much noise.

“Was that too much?” you mumble out, lowering your hand which greatly disappoints him.

“What was?”

“F-forget it.” You immediately retreat from the moment, suddenly fascinated by anything else happening on the street instead.

And then it hits him. You were flirting with him. Actually flirting. And he completely missed it because every coherent thought leaves his body the second you pay him too much attention.

At one point, he even genuinely wondered whether he was developing dementia, perhaps erosion-related, because how else was he supposed to explain the dizziness, the lapses in judgment, the complete inability to think straight that began plaguing him seemingly out of nowhere? Only later did he realize the symptoms always worsened around you specifically.

Which, frankly, feels far more terminal.

“Anyway, “ he says quickly, recovering for your sake too, “I’m tagging along. I’ll even carry your bags free off charge.” He presses one hand against his chest, as if speaking of noble sacrifice.

“You charge women for carrying their bags?” you ask, unimpressed.

“No! Of course not.”

“Don’t you take commissions for basically anything?”

“Correct.” He lifts one finger, about to make a point. “But never for gentlemanly behavior.”

The proud smile on his face makes you snicker.

“Well, if we are going together,” you glance towards one of the nearest coffee shops, “how about, coffee first?”

“That sounds great.” He really could use a cup. Maybe he’ll stop slipping in front of you so much.

As the two of you get into walking side by side through the crowded streets, growing denser with every hour, a certain thought slowly forms in your mind. You’ve been meaning to ask him for a while now.

“How do you always find me, anyway?” you inquire curiously. “You do that a lot, you know.”

The question is innocent enough, but it still makes his guts churn.

Sure, you frequent popular areas, but Duomension City is enormous, sprawling endlessly in all that commercial enclosure of absurdity. But at some point, repeated coincidence stops feeling entirely convincing.

Ashveil opens his mouth, but he doesn’t explain himself immediately, deciding to be careful with what excuse he shall feed you this time. That’s the problem lately: he is becoming too transparent around you. The more truth he hides, the harder they become to contain, leaking out through careless comments and overfamiliar observations. How does one stay quiet about a person they're so terribly enamored with?

Nonchalance has never been his strong suit anyway, and he needs you that badly.

The fact you’re starting to notice certain patterns doesn’t help him either. People in Planarcadia move too fast to notice who revolves around them, too distracted by spectacle and noise and Phantasmoon Games and their own survival to question others too deeply.

Obviously, he cannot tell you the truth:

That he noticed you returning home during work hours through your own security camera feed—not that long after your message has told him—panicked something might have happened, and spent the last half hour discreetly trailing you to ensure you were alright.

So instead, he chooses the safer route. A little cruelty to balance things out. “You’re pretty predictable,” he says straightforwardly, yet not without wincing inwardly at how crude it must have sounded.

The manner in which he delivers his answer does have you scoffing. “Excuse me?” You cross your arms and tap your feet against the ground impatiently after you pause your saunter.

Ashveil raises both hands at once in surrender, scrambling to soften the blow. He still cannot afford you hating him. That would be the end of him.

“I mean your routine is predictable,” he corrects quickly. “Consistent. Which isn’t a bad thing, necessarily—it just means it’s easy to recognize patterns, especially for someone trained to notice them. But other people might not be as harmless as me, which is why you should be careful about sharing your location publicly, posting photos in real time, downloading suspicious apps, or—”

The detective lecture is intentional. If he keeps talking long enough, maybe you will forget to stay offended, jaded by his talk.

“Okay, okay,” you heave a heavy sigh. “I got the memo.”

It’s ironic, your stalker warning you about stalkers. If it was another guy stalking you and Ashveil found out, he’d drag him to a police station. Except, in his humble opinion, he hardly qualifies as one. Stalkers have nefarious intensions. He, on the other hand, is simply…concerned… Curious, perhaps excessively so, but ultimately helpful. If anything, unbeknownst to you, he has already prevented several unpleasant incidents from ever reaching you… or your awareness, on that score.

You have no idea how many people have looked at you too long; how many revolting thoughts storm behind strangers’ eyes, perhaps similar to his and that’s he knows it. And if that somehow makes him monstrous too, then at least let him be the lesser evil among all possible predators circling this planet.

He at least tries to constrain the beast.

“But,” he adds more lightly, “I pass through your district pretty often too. I’m always outside looking for clients, remember? We naturally run into each other a lot.”

Right. You have, in fact, witnessed him standing on sidewalks holding handwritten promotional signs like an absolute disaster of a businessman, desperately offering people business cards talking about two percent discounts with all the confidence of someone negotiating hostage terms.

“That makes sense,” you admit after a moment, scratching your cheek apologetically. “Sorry if I sounded accusatory or anything…”

“No,” he shakes his head fervently. “Absolutely not. Honestly, I’m happy that you’re staying vigilant. Better safe than sorry, right?”

Ashveil is annoyed, tapping the sole of his boot against the checkered tiles beneath the cafe table. Not even because you are paying for the coffee—though that certainly does not help his pride any, as he does think he should be doing better if he genuinely wants to impress you someday. Unfortunately, his earned money usually goes to other causes, first and foremost, and even if Pearl’s cases can pay handsomely, a big chunk of it goes to his old wounded friends in need of life better than his. First Fang duties.

From the small yellow table tucked near the windows, he has a clear view of you waiting in line at the screen register. The queue moves painfully slowly, bodies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder within the tiny pastel-colored space. You stand there patiently, studying the menu on the overhead screens cycling panels with ads and offers, despite having ordered here countless times already. Very cute, overall.

Unfortunately, you remain completely oblivious to the eyes drifting toward you from across the shop—or perhaps you have simply learned how to tune such things out after living in Duomension City long enough. Doesn’t matter, as Ashveil who has gained a nasty habit of overthinking about you notices them all immediately.

Eyes lingering over your body for too long. Eyes flicking towards your wallet. Eyes tracing the shape of your face while pretending not to stare. One man glancing between you and his phone and some weird attachment trap to it with growing interest. And Ashveil swears he is not merely being paranoid, not a victim of forgetting people’s innate curiosity.

He would gladly stand beside you right now if you had not specifically told him to keep thee table occupied. He already would have planted himself behind you like some feral guard dog pretending not to growl at strangers. Besides, if the coffee ends up being taken to go, your time together shortens considerably, and he would prefer delaying the inevitable end of this outing for as long as humanly possible. Choices, choices…

Then his instincts prove themselves correct. A man near the front of the line abruptly lifts his phone towards your face, livestream already active in app.

Ashveil sighs in vindication. See? He is right to worry. This city is full of freaks.

The streamer starts loudly rating people’s outfits for his audience, but his camera lingers on you for too long, drifting downward in ways that make Ashveil’s stomach tighten unpleasantly. When you politely ask the man to stop filming you, he merely laughs and steps closer instead, clearly encouraged by the audience reacting through the scrolling comments like some desperate.

Wonderful. For all intents and purposes, this man has just single-handedly reduced Ashveil’s guilt regarding stalking you by at least thirty percent.

As Ashveil rises from his seat, he shrugs his coat off onto the chair first. Spreading murderous intent throughout a coffee shop tends to alarm civilians, so he makes a genuine effort to calm himself down while approaching.

The streamer is still talking when Ashveil reaches him, coming up behind him like a ghost. Without warning, he casually presses the mute button on the small console panel on the screen.

“Hey—”

“Give me the phone.”

The streamer blinks, turning around. “What?”

Ashveil smiles pleasantly. “Take your hands off the camera,” he says quietly near the man’s ear, voice soft enough that the people around—you especially—cannot properly pick it up over the shop’s noise, “or I’ll make sure they come off literally.”

Meanwhile, he keeps his expression towards you entirely calm, meant to be reassuring.

The streamer goes pale almost immediately. Ashveil appears unassuming at first, but something about the shadowed look in his eyes, one of them twitching too, unsettles the streamer greatly. The cane Ashveil wields goes to press onto the guy’s feet nearly painfully too. “O-okay, chill,” he mutters nervously. “I didn’t know she was your girlfriend—”

“She isn’t.” Ashveil’s smile never wavers. “Is that the only reason you know how to behave?”

The man stares at him, dumbfounded.

And for one brief second, Ashveil wonders if something slipped through his expression—something hungry, older source, and certainly sharp enough to expose what truly sits beneath his skin.

Thankfully, the streamer backs away. “Whatever, man,” he scoffs weakly before hurrying out of the care with his livestream still running. Other people around look startled for a moment, confused about what happened, but they quickly settle back.

Ashveil watches him leave, thinking what a hypocrite he’s starting to become.

Standing here acting holier-than-thou and outraged over another man reducing you into spectacle while he himself encroaches your routines, sneaks through your house vents, and spends sleepless nights imagining how you feel beneath him.

Sure, he has not acted on the ugliest thoughts yet… But what happens if one day he finally does? He fights for justice, even at the cost of spilling blood, he hates hurting others, but when it comes to you, he breaks his own rules more often than not. Guilt exists in Ashveil’s heart for sure, but apparently not enough to set him back—not when it comes to you, his special person and sunshine.

“You good?” he asks once he reaches you, his hand settling instinctively between your shoulder blades as you quickly finish order, not wanting to break your promise about caffeine fill.

“Perfectly fine,” you insist. “Thank you.”

Still rattled, though—he can feel the tension in your posture as he guides you away from the line.

For a moment after you sit down, some awkward silence fills the air around you. He can tell you’re trying to act unaffected by the encounter, clutching your wallet, but he doesn’t press you on, letting you calm down on your own.

Shortly after, one of the screens blinks your order number already. With how fast-progressing things are today, automatized with these mechatron workers especially, it is no surprise. “Oh. It’s our order.”

He locates the counter and the tray waiting for you, patting your shoulder. “Stay here. I’ll pick it up.”

He’s back in the blink of an eye, while you’re still fumbling with your wallet.

Trying to tuck it away, with how shaky your hands are from the unpleasant encounter, you accidentally bump the coffee cup. In result, hot coffee spills directly over his gloved left hand.

Ashveil absolutely could have moved away in time. He simply chose not to.

“Ow,” he hisses, pulling his hand back with a scowl. “That’s savage.” Honestly, the phantom pain in his prosthetic arm hurts infinitely worse on daily basis—and tears at him during fullmoon.

You gasp immediately. “Ashveil! Oh my goodness, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine—”

“No, no, quickly, let me see.”

Before he can protest further, you are already grabbing napkins and reaching for his hand with frantic concern. The moment your fingers carefully pull at his white glove, something devastating its surroundings storms inside his chest. There it is again, that warmth.

You dab gently at his fingers with a napkin while muttering anxious apologies under your breath, entirely focused on making sure he is alright and disregarding old scars. Ashveil watches you in silence, fighting the embarrassing urge to lace his fingers through yours properly, and imagining two worlds connecting. When did he become so sappy?

Your touch is absurdly tender. He cannot remember the last time someone handled him with care instead of annoyance or lust.

Some self-proclaimed lone wolf he is.

It is reckless, really. Someone in his position of being chased by ranger should avoid attracting attention, should avoid becoming emotionally attached, should avoid indulging in moments like these unless they become necessities instead of luxuries. So much for staying low. He might have to disappear from this planet tomorrow and what would he even do about you then?

Unfortunately, Ashveil has never been particularly good at denying himself where you are concerned. If anything, spending the rest of his miserable live serving you while receiving small fragments of affection in return sounds close enough to paradise. In his most delusional visions, you and him run away to some tropics together.

He watches the concern pinching your brows together, almost paining him as much, and he briefly wonders, not for the first time, how someone can possibly be this kind to him without realizing the danger of it. If anything, you barely know anything about him, not anything under the surface. Because the uglier feelings he usually tries to curb follow behind. He wants to devour you entirely, leave no bones, until you form an union with him, so no distance could ever exist between you two again.

“There probably won't be a scar, I think,” you murmur nervously, still inspecting his hand. It’s really not that bad, as maybe a few splashes of coffee hit his hand and his glove soaked up the most. “But maybe we should get this checked anyway—”

“No need.”

“But—”

Ashveil pats your hand before finally letting his fingers curl around yours under the guise of reassurance—gently, as though he anticipates breaking you, though in truth, he can't take more of your touch and remain alright. The heat rushing through your skin soaks into his pores, rewriting whatever here might have started withering, and he imagines the vines of your kindness climbing his healthy arm in search for his heart already thrumming. “Now, now,” he says softly, smiling goofily again. “I’m not that delicate. I promise.”

You finally laugh a little, the remaining tension loosening from your shoulders. You even squeeze his hand twice, sending chills through him that have him shifting in his seat.

“For what it’s worth, it’s good coffee they serve here,” Ashveil praises after he takes a sip. He lets your hand go first, reluctantly.

“Yeah?” Your expression brightens even more. Truly precious. “I'm glad. It’s my favorite place.”

Of course he already knew it was yours. He memorized that months ago. Still, hearing you willingly bring him somewhere important to you makes his chest flutter strangely, as though his lungs are suddenly filling with cleaner air than the city normally allows him.

You realize something soon after. “You know, Ashveil…” You stir your drink absentmindedly. “I feel like our conversations tend to be pretty one-sided…”

Ashveil stills.

“And I feel bad about that,” you continue. “So I thought that maybe I could ask you more things about yourself instead?”

That genuinely catches him off guard. He deliberately steers conversations toward you whenever possible, preferring to keep attention away from himself, yet somehow you interpreted that imbalance as your own failure instead.

It’s dangerous, this type of care.

“Hm. Well.” He chuckles nearly in a jitterily manner, scratching his cheek. There is little to share that doesn't compromise your safety, and little to reveal that doesn’t pain him these days. He’d look like a bleeding heart anyway. “I don’t know if there’s that much interesting stuff to learn about me. I mostly just work, eat, and sleep.”

“I’m not someone that special either,” you protest, leaning closer. An outrageous lie, in his opinion. “Yet we talk about me all the time,” you continue. “So I’m sure there’s something. Like…” You purse your lips in thought—another thing he finds cute. He can imagine a lightbulb shining above your head as you come up with something. “What’s one of your dreams?”

“My dreams?” he repeats, taken aback.

You could have asked about his favorite color. Food. Movie. You went straight for his throat instead. How touching. How scary.

Ashveil glances around the cafe. Different people fill every table: students, workers, exhausted commuters, streamers, couples, strangers. Loud, messy, and imperfect people, all trying to carve out somewhere to belong beneath the endless neon of this planet. If he stares long enough, he almost expects ghost from his part to emerge from the crowd and remind him that eventually he will lose you too.

It would be far wiser of him to give you some common crap, about money or fame. To say something simple and cheesy about retirement for a tropical island full of cheap sandals, happy dogs, and warm beaches. And yet, he naturally clings to the idea of you wanting to understand him, to take some of the burden off his shoulders even if guilt would strike him after.

“I think…” He hesitates. “I wish everyone could have a place for themselves in this world.” His voice lowers slightly. “Somewhere they’re allowed to exist safely. Somewhere warm enough to return to at the end of the day.”

You listen carefully—sincerely, digging dagger into his heart this way.

“No one should have to survive alone, or barely, if it can be helped,” he admits after a moment, fingers drumming once against the cup. “I know that’s naive, though.”

“Hm.” Your smile softens immediately. “I think it’s a beautiful dream, Ashveil.”

Your words aren’t dry or dismissive. There is no mockery in your voice. You seem to earnestly appreciate his answer and he cannot stop staring at you like this, his grey eyes gaining fragility over that sharpness from the moments ago.

You truly are a devil. Because he suddenly becomes aware of the hypocrisy sitting inside his head, both sides clashing there everyday. Pronouncing what he doesn’t deserve.

A man who claims to care about justice while quietly invading your life piece by piece out of selfish desperation. A man who wants to protect your freedom while simultaneously wanting you closer and closer until the line between affection and possession disappears completely.

Maybe someone would side with him and tell him, “you deserve this after everything you have went through, old man.” But he doesn’t wish to be a dead weight to you just because he’s broken.

They say ignorance is a bliss. They are darn right. Self-awareness does nothing except lets the guilt and greed eat him from the inside.

“It is beautiful,” he says quietly, his grip on the cup tightening, “but not realistic. Most people never reach that kind of haven no matter how hard they try. Luck, or gods, they decide almost everything eventually.” His mouth pulls into a solemn smile. “I get front row sears watching that happen.”

You fall silent after that, as if you don’t know whether you should let him keep talking or nip it in the bud before the whole day has its charm ruined.

When you give him that uncertain look, a mix of worry and awkwardness, he suddenly realizes what an absolute mood killer he must be for a shopping trip. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to murder your spirits.” He laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his nape as he leans safely away from you.

“No.” You shake your head. “I asked, remember? And I’m happy you answered honestly.”

He nods, strangely affected by that response. “Thanks,” he murmurs, almost shyly. He should be the wiser, protective figure here, as someone far older than you. “I appreciate that.”

For a moment, he simply drums his fingers against the table, watching the vivid reflections ripple across the windows. Then he abruptly straightens.

“So!” His usual grin returns. “Shopping?”

“Totally.”

“Dogs used to have much less choice. So did consumers, honestly. Would you look at how fast things change?”

“You sound like an old man,” you remark from beside him with a snort, your attention never leaving the enormous shelves packed with enough pet food brands to sustain an army of spoiled pets.

The pet industry has been thriving for decades already, capitalism evolving into some grotesque creature of its own. Colorful packaging stretches endlessly across the aisle, each product screaming promises about healthier fur, stronger teeth, shinier eyes, happier digestion, longer lives. Even the bags themselves are glossy enough to rival cosmetic advertisements.

Ashveil stiffens slightly beside the shopping cart.

“Come on, who even needs all this? This is a supermarket. Not a pet shop,” he says defensively.

“Well, apparently my dog does.” You crouch briefly to inspect a lower shelf. “Princess has gotten really picky lately. Too much variety ruined her forever.”

“Yeah?” He folds his arms and smirks. “They used to hunt, can you imagine?”

“The most she hunts is my slipper after I accidentally drop it.”

Ashveil suppresses a laugh.

If only you knew. Princess can become vicious whenever she wants to. The first few days he started visiting your house, she nearly tore into his ankles on sight. Funnily, a stranger breaking into her home is not what offended her the most. That ranked secondary compared to the fact that the treats he brought were chicken-flavored instead of beef. She had made enough outraged noise to nearly expose him entirely before finally driving him back out through the window and land inside a dumpster. H u m i l i a t i n g.

As you’re finally about to pick something, Ashveil instinctively stops you, his cane pointing.

“Your dog doesn't like that one.” The words slip out far too naturally. Too easily, sure, born from the need to be right; you tend to lower his defenses with how wonderful you are to him, leading to him saying compromising things like that.

Your hand pauses midair. His confident statement picks up your attention. Not would probably dislike. Not even might prefer something else. A definitive certainty.

“How do you know that? You haven't met my dog yet.” Your expression sharpens with mild offense rather than suspicion, thankfully. To you, it merely sounds like someone rudely claiming superior knowledge over your own dog instead of accidentally exposing himself as a home-invading creep.

His heart stills right there by this damn pet food aisle. Think fast, think fast, think fast, you old man—

“No, however—” He clears his throat. “You told me her breed before, remember? And I’ve worked around all kinds of dogs over the years, well, unfortunately at the cost of a big allergic reaction. You start collecting their characteristics.” His hand waves vaguely towards the shelf. “That one’s too light. She probably needs something richer. More iron.” He nods sagely, then adds to his wisdom, “That breed’s basically halfway to becoming a shark. Bloodthirsty creatures.”

He’s lying because he’s not even that good at deducing. Storing information about you comes easily for him, but he’s mostly operating based on intuition and luck.

“You think so?” You give him the benefit of doubt because your furball does deserve the best.

“Yes!” He clasps his hands together. “Can’t go wrong with beef.”

He knows this especially because he once at the same dog treats himself, being broke enough to consider it economically reasonable. The nutritional contents are close enough to actual jerky, enough for one to decide that what society thinks doesn’t matter.

“Hm… it’s just… I don't want her eating too much fat.”

Right. He almost forgot until this morning where he saw Princess. Continuously bribing your dog into silence with treats may eventually become a genuine health concern. And Ashveil loves dogs enough to acknowledge this prospect. Still, switching her away from her from her current favorite will absolutely trigger aggression, so he needs to help transition her carefully—if he wants to preserve diplomatic relations within the household.

“Just don't overfeed her and it should be fine.”

He also ought to avoid Princess for as long as possible. Which is becoming more and more difficult, as you (un)fortunately, walk her a lot. He can’t always text you and ask you if you’re with your dog—even with that allergy thing as his bargaining chip—if sometimes he appears spontaneously. If Princess were to openly recognize him in front of you…

The two of you continue wandering through the store afterward, slowly filling the cart with a mix of necessities and smaller indulgences. The city’s supermarkets always feel overstimulating, packed with fluorescent lighting, brightly colored displays, robotic promotional mascots chirping abut discounts, and giant hanging screens advertising products loud enough to follow customers across entire warehouse. Ashveil is more accustomed to the darkness of his refrigerator, but with you around, those elements become somewhat bearable.

He naturally takes notes of what you get.

At some point, you toss something sweet into the basket beside him. Ashveil glances downward.

“You remembered.”

“Well, you liked it last time.”

Something embarrassing tickles his cheeks. You cared enough to remember what snack he likes and to get it for him. Spending money on him, when he should be spending it on you.

As you two continue forward, his own brain remains busy memorizing absurdly tiny details about you: how you absentmindedly compare expiration dates twice before buying something, the way you tap the cart to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, how you narrow your eyes whenever calculating prices in your head. Domesticity looks good on you and he’s happy to be part of it.

By the time the shopping bags are finally filled, the crowds outside the supermarket have thickened.

“Thank you for joining me today, Ashveil,” you say while adjusting the bags against your arm—not letting him hold them. “I should probably head back before the city gets even too crowded.”

“Fair enough.” He still reaches towards the heavier bag. “Let me walk you home.”

“No, there’s really no need.”

He looks at you with confusion.

“You already did plenty for me today,” you add with a small smile.

“It’s not a problem,” he insists, holding onto the side of the bag. “Seriously, the streets get worse around this hour, and—”

“Ashveil. Please.” For the first time, your tone turns firmer. Resolute, oh the horrors.

It does make him burn, nearly sending shock into his body, and he’s about to overthink again.

His stomach drops stones. He must have been a bother to you, all clingy like velcro no matter how politely he disguises it as concern. Maybe you finally noticed how excessive he has become. Or worse—maybe you noticed something deeper beneath it all, and the situation is far more catastrophic than he initially thought. Or maybe you are replacing him—

“I don’t mean to be overbearing,” he says carefully, suddenly hyperaware of every word leaving his mouth. “I’m just worried about your safety. You know what Planarcadia’s like lately. All these gangs…” Even if he befriended some of them. “Weird people…”

“I know.” Your features soften lightly, though they maintain its seriousness. “But having someone worry over me every second isn’t exactly good for me either. I do try to be careful, so…”

You finally have made a boundary. You are reasonable, yet it still feels like you kicking him in his ribs.

“I see,” he says after a moment, forcing himself to let go of your purchases. “That makes sense.” It does, which is the worst part. “But call me if anything happens,” he adds, unable to fully stop himself.

“I will.”

You smile again afterward, gentler this time, seemingly relieved he accepted the request without argument. Then you leave.

Ashveil watches you gradually disappear into the moving crowd, your sunny figure swallowed little by little, and he thinks the lights above don’t hold candle to you. The city suddenly feels even louder even for its norm, unbearably so.

He stands there for another moment before finally turning away himself with a heavy sigh, shoulders lower than before. His invisible tail is curled, more of a dog, not wolf. He already knows, with miserable certainty, that he is going to spend the next several hours replaying this interaction over and over until he successfully convinces himself that you must secretly hate him now. A grown man, now unwilling to eat the food you bought him, just so he can cling to a piece of you for a bit longer.

No. Forget it. He can’t leave it like that. What if there’s someone waiting for you? He didn’t see you contacting anyone when strolling with him but he needs to make sure you’re not cheating on him. Not that it’s cheating, but you get the gist, right?

Yet as it turns out, you really reach home on your own. He trails you right under you reach your door. Well, at least he knows you’re safe.

Ashveil doesn't remember the last time he’s been this scared.

Your call reaches him in the middle of the night, cutting through the rattling hum of the refrigerator compressor. His phone vibrates violently against the metal lining and skids away from him, and in his panic co catch it, he nearly smashes his forehead against the surface. It doesn't help he’s been talking in his sleep again, barely getting any sleep immersion that he thought he was about to experience sleep paralysis too.

For one terrible second, he thinks something has happened to you. That maybe it isn't a dream.

But, honestly, once he manages to answer and hears your voice properly, half of him is simply relieved. You sound panicked, yes, words tumbling over each other in disarray, but you called him. After your boundary-giving and his walk home with his tail between his legs, you still reached for him first.

That alone nearly distracts him before his finally brain finally catches up to what you are actually saying. A receipt. Something wrong inside the house. Suddenly, he is wide awake.

“Hold on—” He pushes the fridge open and sits upright like a corpse rising to life. “—you’re saying you think someone broke into your house?”

“But I can’t tell!” you blurt out shakily. “I found this receipt right as I was getting ready to sleep, and things feel weird, and I checked the cameras but there’s nothing there, nothing seems missing, and maybe I’m overreacting but—”

Ashveil’s stomach drops. Did you finally notice something? Did he accidentally scatter evidence?

No. Impossible. He always checks carefully. He takes pictures beforehand, recreates every angle afterward, makes sure everything remains exactly as it was before he arrived. It’s the least he can do. He is meticulous about these things… Usually.

“Hey. Hey, calm down.” He rubs down his face, forcing his voice to be calmer despite the sudden adrenaline flooding him.” Don’t wind yourself up. I’ll come over and take a look first, okay? Don't call the police yet.”

“Why not? It's their job!” you ask with confusion.

“Well…” He stands quickly, tugging on his pants with the free hand. “Unless there’s direct proof of forced entry, they might turn you away. Let me check things out first before you stress yourself too hard.”

There is a brief pause, filled with your frantic breathing.

“O-okay. Come quick, please.”

The call ends.

Ashveil stares at the dark screen for one second before bolting like a complete lunatic. Mister N looks up in alarm as he watches his boss rush through the office half-dressed and visibly panicked.

“Ashveil, what on earth are you doing?”

“No time for explanation!” he blurts out while shoving his boots on and grabbing his cane. “Emergency!”

By the time he reaches your street, his thoughts have already escalated into increasingly catastrophic scenarios. You found other traces as well. You are suspecting him and this is a trap with police awaiting him at your house. Or worse, someone else truly did break in.

You open the door almost the instant he rings the bell.

And don't you look miserable. Your eyes are red and glossy with tears, shoulders tense beneath your sleep clothes, fingers clutching the edge of the door. You look at him as if he might as well be your last hope.

His eyes soften. “Hey,” he says quietly, stepping closer. “Pretty lady, rest assured, everything will be alright. Breathe for me,” he says gently, fixing a loose lock of your hair from your face. “You’re shaking.” Sight of you like this is the most difficult one to take. And it’s probably his fault.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper shakily. “It’s probably something stupid and I’m making a big deal out of nothing—”

“No.” His voice firms from the seriousness. “You’re right to be cautious. Especially these days.” His hands settle carefully on your shoulders. “How about you make yourself some tea while I look around, hm?”

You hesitate but you end up nodding. “Okay. I’ll make you one too,” you say nicely and his heart skips a beat even now.

He smiles encouragingly, stepping inside and hanging his coat.

Before retreating toward the kitchen, you suddenly turn back and hand him the receipt you kept in your robe’s pocket.

“I’ve never been to this konbini before,” you explain anxiously. “Or at least not recently. Sometimes I stop at random stores during walks with Princess, but…”

“I see.”

Ashveil scans it quickly.

The receipt goes:

a loaf of bread

instant coffee

instant noodles

10 x bunches of bananas

.

.

.

Fuck.

All thoughts leave his body for a moment and it’s all tension taking over his body. It is his receipt.

The bananas are for the monkeys at the agency, since they enthusiastically accept payment in fruit and occasionally riot when undercompensated. It must have slipped from his pocked earlier while he was distracted grinding himself into your mattress like a pathetic animal in heat. Which should have not happened, since he does document everything before moving around your house specifically to avoid mistakes like this.

Yet lately, around you, he has been getting sloppy. Well, more than usual.

With you in the kitchen, he at least has been granted several minutes to unravel this blunder in peace. And what an absolute sad sack he was; he survived deadly fights only to be taken down by a grocery receipt?

By the time you return with tea and invite him over to your cozy sofa laid out with blanket, he has mostly reconstructed his composure.

“I’ve got good news,” he announces, leaning back—and trying not to get distracted by your scent and warmth radiating off of you. Not it’s not the time! Even if you look especially adorable with some sleepy weariness attached to you. “There’s no sign of forced entry anywhere. Locks are intact. Windows too.”

“But how did it get inside?” you ask immediately, looking at him intensely. “I keep my windows closed.”

Ashveil hums thoughtfully, trying to appear more visceral than practiced. “Well…” He staples his fingers between his spread thighs. “Think about it this way. If someone was skilled enough to enter your home unnoticed, avoid the cameras, leave no signs of entry…” He points with his head at the receipt on the coffee table. “Would they really leave behind something this obvious?” Okay, maybe he would. “You probably carried it inside accidentally without noticing.”

Your tight expression slowly relaxes. “Yes,” you admit with relief, “that actually makes sense.”

“Exactly.”

You exhale deeply, tension leaving your shoulders. “Though, that person must really like bananas.”

Ashveil laughs despite himself. It’s a good thing you don’t know about his little monkey companion. And, he’s quite happy that the crisis is over.

But right as he thinks he should go, you suddenly wrap your arms around him. He freezes. Your face presses into his chest while your fingers curl weakly into the fabric of his shirt, seeking comfort. Seriously, what’s going on with you lately? You’re getting bold.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “I owe you big time.”

“What for?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

“For coming here.” You tighten your hold slightly, your own heart racing. “You've been… doing so much for me lately. Honestly more than anyone else has.” Your laugh comes out small and tired. “Living on this planet is such a hassle sometimes.”

Oh, you poor thing. It should be him apologizing to you. You are there thanking him for protecting you from fears he himself created. The guilt born behind the thought nearly has him speaking in protest, yet… he still craves your affection. He wouldn’t be able to shoot down your call for a bit of TLC either.

He says nothing. His arms embrace you, as his chin goes to rest atop your head. It’s an amazing feeling, holding you. Right somehow. A selfish, surely monstrous for these reasons part of him almost wishes you would cry again solely so he could continue comforting you like this a little longer.

Your hearts sync together and he swears he’s never felt more alive.

Eventually, you tilt your head upward, revealing yourself to him in your vulnerability. You’re softer than ever, even needy with your eyes pleading, enough to suddenly lean closer.

Ashveil genuinely cannot process what is happening. Surely you are not in love with him already. More likely, your emotions are scrambled from fear and relief and exhaustion, with your brain desperately searching for comfort after making yourself half-sick. Living alone as a woman must get scary for you sometimes.

And maybe your offering merely is done to feel safe, grounded and soothed by someone else, but Ashveil doesn’t care about the reasoning when your lips brush his. When it happens, the universe seems to narrow down to contain only the two of you.

He’s still frozen, as no single nagging or feeling thought has ever predicted you kissing him willingly. A distant worshiper fitted his calculations better.

You mistake that hesitation for rejection and begin pulling away almost immediately, embarrassment flicking across your hot face.

He quickly realizes what he’s accidentally taking for granted, and the thought of letting this go is maddening. So his hand catches your waist and pulls you flush against him.

The second kiss is nothing like the first. Full of desperation and hunger, he kisses you like a listless man discovering something worth going after centuries, mouth moving against yours with enough intensity to leave him dizzy. One of his hands presses firmly against your back while the other one—always the left hand—rests at your jaw lightly, as though he still cannot believe this is real.

You take it one step further in response, as your fingers slip into his long hair and tug that he sighs blissfully before you straddle him. You deepen the kiss with an urgency on your own.

All of this has him realizing what a fool he was. You must have wanted him all along, at least somewhat—or needed even. But whatever it is, it makes no difference at the moment. Your weight on his is real and tangible.

Take all you want from him. Feed from him. Make this broken-legged wolf worth something.

It’s easy for his hands to start roaming over your body the moment you kiss him again, restless palms mapping across you as though he’s trying to commit terrain to his memory before it vanishes before his palms. Your robe vanishes first, peeled away from your shoulders and discarded carelessly onto the other side of the furniture.

He knows he was never supposed to end up here. Not like this, through your main entrance. Not in your arms instead of the imagination of the scene, not with with your sun surrounding him from every direction, not breathing against your lips while your hands anchor so trustingly around his shoulders. From the very beginning, he was meant to remain distant.

The moment you helped him pay for that meal in Dovebrook and somehow altered the chemistry of his brain, he should have simply appreciated you from afar and keep moving like every other lonely idiot in the galaxy. Instead, he kept chasing you. First by curiosity, then by intention, then by outright compulsion until it finally wasn’t enough and he decided to make his official appearance, playing your friend by using all that he has learned about you. That shtick with you helping a broke man pay for his food was a perfect icebreaker to start seeing each other, so was you being so friendly from the beginning. Naive too perhaps, believing in his good intentions to express gratitude.

And the story behind tonight is ridiculous too. His own stupidity caused the panic that led you into his arms in the first place, somehow winding up in his favor and he now gets to touch you openly.

He cannot tell whether you have actually started developing feelings for him or whether you simply want somebody to fuck after a stressful night, but it hardly matters anymore—either possibility leaves him incredibly flattered, and both are still better than being shut out entirely.

Prurient thoughts about you have been rotting his brain for way too long anyway.

“Nice place, by the way,” he murmurs between kisses, mouth brushing yours as his hands beneath your shirt.

“Just the place?” you tease softly before nipping at his lower lip.

“Well, the owner is just as nice, if not better…” he answers against your mouth, the words dissolving into another kiss right as his fingers begin pushing your pajama shirt higher—

A sharp bark cuts through the room. Both of you jolt before separating.

“Princess!” you exclaim at the exact same moment he does, turning toward the hallway opening where your dog stands glaring sleepily in his direction.

Shit. He absolutely forgot about her so did you in the heat of the moment.

That bark is absolutely aimed at him, though thankfully not in the way it could have been. More annoyed than alarmed, really. He suspects Princess came looking for snacks and found herself offended by the fact he arrived empty-handed tonight.

As you try to shoo her away, Princess plants herself stubbornly in place and barks at him again.

“Ugh, she doesn’t like strangers…” you sigh apologetically.

Yes, strangers. It’s good that’s what you think.

“No worries.” Ashveil crouches in front of the couch despite the cold sweat trying to break across his spine. “I like all dogs, and they like me.”

“That’s not how this works—”

He extends his hand anyway before you can finish objecting. Princess sniffs him for approximately two seconds before visibly recognizing his scent and immediately losing interest, turning away with the dramatic disappointment of someone realizing there are really no treats involved in this interaction. Pretty rude after everything, he thinks.

Ashveil gives her a few quick pets for appearances before she finally trudges off again.

Her indifference doesn’t surprise him, though it does surprise you.

“Huh. Seems that she likes you enough.” If liking someone was tolerating their presence enough to let them stay.

You do not question it further, thankfully. People love convincing themselves animals instinctively recognize good souls or hidden kindness, and Ashveil is not above benefiting from that kind of superstition.

He just smiles smugly and stands up. “Told ya.”

You laugh softly, amused by this ridiculous interruption in making out. “Sorry about her. Now… where were we?”

Before he can answer properly, you surge toward him to kiss him again and wrap your arms around his shoulders, nearly knocking him backward with the force of it. He moves instinctively; his hands catch your thighs and hoist you up with a surprising ease right before he pins you against the nearest wall.

“Detective,” you breathe out, sounding genuinely surprised once his palms settle against your ass, rough in their grip. “I didn’t know you had that in you.” You measure him.

“It’d be a little bit boring if I had shown you everything about myself right away, no?” he teases lowly. You really don't know the half of it, let alone what lies inside his arm.

As you laugh again, so prettily at that, he kisses you properly. Mouth full of unbearable hunger, voracious for you. It’s beyond his wildest dreams, the fact that he can be here with you, touching you, that he resents the thought of wasting just a second.

His hat gets in the way, so he tears it off and throws it somewhere behind him without looking.

Them your hips grind experimentally against the growing hardness trapped beneath his pants, and the sensation nearly knocks the breath from his lungs altogether. This is much better than it was in his head, he can feel his underwear sticking up already.

Ashveil hisses into your mouth, his grip on you momentarily faltering before it becomes even tighter.

“You're vicious…” he mutters hoarsely, fanning your face from how close it is. You look just as incredible from this close, looking at him with so much desire heavily hanging your eyelids down—succeeding at reigniting his lust after many years as well.

“I thought you could take that?”

“Just you wait,” he says roughly.

He carries you toward the bedroom with no delay, kicking the door shut behind him the second he steps inside. The sight of your bed nearly short-circuits his brain for entirely separate reason, a morning memory colliding with present reality, but the victory of his dreams coming true brings him back onto earth.

Upon being thrown at your bed, you can take in only one breath before he’s all over you again, nudging your legs open with his knee so he can take the space between your thighs. There’s little barrier of your pajama, yet his hands first dip beneath your shirt, palms flat against your skin before reaching your breasts he kneads to your pleasure.

“You just know how to stir chaos…” he murmurs against your jaw before dragging slow kissed down the side of your neck, each lingering long enough to leave warmth blooming. He could easily snap his fangs here and see you writhe, so he holds your life without you knowing.

You shiver beneath him yet still manage to tease ever so sweetly, chuckling softly, “Me? And what did I do, pray tell?”

What didn’t you do?

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he growls softly against your skin. “And looking at me like that doesn’t help me at all.”

But whatever clever reply you had in store dies beneath another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue pushing into your mouth the instant your lips part for him. He sighs at your taste.

Clothes begin disappearing quickly afterward, your hands tugging frantically at his ridiculous layers while he strips himself and his dignity down with little patience. Something tears through the process, seams ripping loudly, but he barely notices or cares.

By the time he reaches your clothes, you aid him by kicking off your own pants, down to your panties he then removes for you. He allows himself to take one look at you, burning the image of your nude form—perfection, in his mind—onto his memory forever. You stare back at him, your chest heaving as you squirm like a bunny in anticipation, overheated from his intrusive gaze.

His mouth travels everywhere once he finally gets obstructed access to your skin, kissing and biting and suckling at the softest parts of you with barely restrained greed. He stays especially at your throat, not only because he enjoys the sounds he can pull from you there, but because your pulse beats beneath his mouth so vividly alive that it almost hypnotizes him. Warm blood rushing beneath delicate skin as he licks a stripe downward with flat tongue, life spilling through your veins with abundance, trusting him enough despite his existence that has included centuries spent around death and hunger.

You tilt your head back further for him without hesitation, your chest rising in irregular intervals. He holds you down by your hips whenever you whimper louder or grind against him again and make him moan too.

Ashveil groans softly against your neck before dragging his tongue over the marks already rising there, his hand sliding lower at last until his fingers slip between your thighs. The wetness waiting there draws a shaky breath from him, something feral in him satisfied once he realizes just how affected you already are.

He wishes he could bury himself between your thighs properly and spend hours there pleasuring you, learning every reaction your body can offer. Worshiping you. Unfortunately, his patience stopped existing the very moment you kissed him—so fingers it is, in hope it’ll ease at least some of the upcoming discomfort for you.

One long finger of his left hand slides inside your pussy first, then another soon after, and he watches your expression shift beautifully as he stretches you open. You moan for him, and only him.

“Look at this…” he mutters, dazed by the sight of you. “You’re soaking already. Pretty thing’s been thinking about this, huh?”

His thumb presses lazily against your clit while he keeps thrusting his fingers into you at a rhythm that grows rougher whenever you make especially sweet noises for him, occasionally stretching your hole up as he opens his digits too. With how tight you are, he cannot imagine his survival once he fills you.

“Ashveil…” You saying his name like this can probably earn you anything, even if it’s not his real name.

Hearing that, his mouth goes back to occupying itself at your chest before finally closing around one nipple with a low groan that vibrates through you. He makes them protrude as he switches between both sides, adding to the whirpool in your abdomen. Meanwhile, he grinds himself against the mattress, trying to relieve some of the painful pressure building beneath his boxers.

You dig your nails into his back, keeping him close while your other hand slips into his dark hair, at the nape of his neck.

“Ashveil… just fuck me already…” you whine, your voice trembling enough for tears to begin gathering at your lashes.

“What’s gotten you in such a hurry?” he murmurs now back against your mouth he must keep kissing, still teasing despite the fact he’s hardly an better. “You’re usually more patient that this.” Like has any right to talk. He’s been one second away from pouncing on you the moment you kissed him.

“Don’t tease,” you complain. “It’s been a while…”

He knows that well.

“Ah, so you’re just using me to get off?” he taunts lightly as he deliberately sinks his fingers deeper and watches your mouth open. Some insecure corner of him still threatens to take the possibility seriously instead of as rightful.

“No…” You pull him closer again, frustrated already. “Stop being such a detective. I need you. I want you.”

He’s even more dizzy after you say that.

Ashveil exhales shakily before finally pulling his fingers from inside you and licking them clean with a low groan. The sight alone makes butterflies rush through your stomach, something about the contrast between his usual shabby demeanor and the hunger in him now going straight to your head.

“Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “I’ll give you what you want. You shouldn’t even have to beg me for it…”

He lets you help him tug his boxers down, and he nearly finishes from the expression crossing your face once you finally see him fully, resting against his abdomen. Your hand wraps around his cock experimentally, pumping him a few slow times while smearing the leaking pre-cum across the tip with your thumb.

His head tips back immediately. It feels too good, enough that he momentarily fears he’ll really come before even getting inside you.

So he grabs your hips instead, grounding himself by dragging his cock through your folds first, coating himself in your slick with rough little thrusts that make your breath hitch. Your legs instinctively wrap around his waist while your fingers clutch tightly at the sheets beneath you. Then he spits directly onto your cunt. You tremble, arching your back.

Once he finally pushes inside, breathing becomes difficult for different reasons.

He’s big. Bigger than you expected, and with how ridiculous Ashveil can sometimes be, it’s strangely easy to forget how imposing he actually is physically until moments like this. The stretch burns at first, enough to force a gasp from your throat, but the discomfort quickly melts into warmth and fullness that leaves your legs shaking around him.

One steady thrust and he’s inside your pussy completely, his balls resting at the curve of your ass.

“A-Ash-sh-veil—” your voice breaks as he starts moving immediately after, pace rough from the beginning as though control abandoned him entirely the second he felt your hot walls envelop him like a perfect, sunny day. Each thrust drags your body with it slightly, his hands bruising you, as the mattress creaks beneath the force of it while his breathing grows harsher against your mouth.

His eagle look only leaves you more flushed.

You notice his prosthetic arm gradually warming against your skin, heat pulsing strangely through the surface and dark seams alike, but whatever curiosity you once had about it you restrained from the fear of disrespecting him dissolves quickly once he hits another spot inside you that leaves your brain mushy. It’s your first time together, yet he already knows your body this well…

You're face to face while losing yourselves like this, both forced to watch each other abandon any pretense of friendliness in real time. Ashveil makes no effort whatsoever to suppress his own sounds either, low and ecstatic moans spilling from freely from him every time you tighten around his cock. He kisses your mouth before leaving more bites across that have your back arching, rinse and repeat.

Soon your legs are pushed nearly against your chest and the angle changes enough to make you cry out properly. He reaches impossibly deep like this, while your legs wriggle in the air uselessly as he keeps forcing your walls to adjust to his size.

“Please… it’s too much…” You whine out as you throw your head back against the pillow.

And yet, Ashveil still seems unsatisfied. Every thrust seems to leave him wanting more than the last time, his expressing growing more and more wrecked each time you moan for him, as if no amount of closeness could ever fully scratch that terrible hunger rooted inside him. Deeper, harder, faster—

“Fuck…” he groans loudly, adding to the ongoing noise reverberating against your bedroom walls. “You’re so good to me, baby… Just keep taking it like that…” He leans in closer to your face and his forehead presses briefly against your before he snaps his hips against your ass harder again. “Gonna make you come so hard.”

The praise only makes you clench tighter around him, and you mewl. Ashveil swears under his breath and grabs the headboard before he loses control completely, letting one of your legs slip down. Unfortunately for you, it only gives him more force behind each trust.

“S-slow down…” you gasp. “You're gonna break my bed…” you say, but it’s all a ghost of rationality speaking for you as you pull him closer by his shoulders.

“You need it. I know you do,” he growls.

He keeps fucking you like this, your nails dragging down his back hard enough to leave marks while he shudders beneath the sting of it. He likes the pain; likes the proof you’re overwhelmed enough to claw at him.

He lets your other leg go, so he can let thick globe of saliva suddenly spill from his mouth onto your cunt before he rolls it across your clit with slow but heavy circles of his thumb, watching your eyes roll back the same way.

“W-wait…” you say eventually.

“Just a bit more, pretty girl—”

“No, Ashveil…” you whimper.

He slows down rough to look at you properly, even if it comes with difficulty. “What is it?”

“M-more lube,” you admit breathlessly. “I’m getting sore…”

Maybe it’s not the sexiest interruption, but some concern flickers across his expression… even if frustration triumphs over the feeling.

“Don’t worry,” he says quickly, “I’ve got it.”

Still half inside you, Ashveil reaches automatically toward the nightstand beside the bed, already opening one drawer before clicking his tongue in annoyance.

“Dammit, you moved it to the other drawer.” These words slip out without him thinking.

The room goes still.

Ashveil freezes when he notices you tense up.

“Why you looking at me like that?” he asks carefully.

“How did you know it was moved?”

“What?”

“You said I moved it.”

He stares at you, in a way that makes your stomach tighten unpleasantly. It makes him look much more different, like he dares you to oppose him further.

“We’re seriously discussing lube logistics in the middle of sex?” he asks with irritation, already opening the second drawer instead. “Relax. Nightstands are the most obvious place imaginable to keep it.”

“Yes, but…” You swallow. “How did you know I moved it?”

“I thought you mentioned reorganizing your room before.”

“But I didn’t—”

Before you can continue, he squirts lube over himself and pushes fully back inside you in one rough thrust, effectively knocking the thought from your head altogether.

“Just focus on me,” he says more sharply now. He doubts he can stop at this point anyway.

More unease brews in your guts despite the pleasure right beneath. You try speaking again, but he thrusts deeper immediately after and your protest dissolves into a broken gasp instead. Tears spill freely down your cheeks from sheer overstimulation while your hands press weakly against his shoulders as if attempting to still keep him away.

Then he flips you onto your stomach. The sudden movement knocks the breath from you entirely, and you’re once more surprised, and maybe a bit concerned by his strength. Your face is pushed into the pillows while Ashveil lays his weight over your back as he drives back inside your hole again, his long and thick cock hitting your pussy hard. He doesn’t want you seeing how wrecked and pathetic he looks, yet he craves to be as close as possible.

He pounds into your hard enough to force little sobs from your throat and make it nearly painful, one hand gripping your hip while the other presses against the back of your neck to keep you still beneath him. You squirm like one of his preys underneath him, feeling the sharp sting of his sweaty skin clashing with yours, but he ignores the way you scratch back at him from the intensity, soiling the pillow from your tears.

“Stop overthinking,” he grows near your ear, tickling your sensitive skin with his long hair that flows to his tempo. “And take it properly.”

The command sends another flush of heat through you despite everything.

You’re trembling uncontrollably by now, pleasure building too fast for your body to keep up with. Ashveil isn’t far behind either, judging from the way his thrusts keep losing rhythm whenever you squeeze around him especially tightly. You can feel the ways he’s pulsing as he keeps you so full.

Then his hand slips beneath your stomach again to rub over your clit unceremoniously. It doesn’t take him much before your orgasm crashes through you so violently, your vision whites out for a moment. Your mouth falls open soundlessly against the pillow while drool dampens the fabric beneath your cheek even more, your body twitching helplessly underneath him as wave after wave keeps hitting.

The way you tighten around him finally send him over the edge too. A broken grunt tears from his throat as he collapses heavily against your back, his cock spilling thick warm inside your cunt in long bursts.

For a good minute, neither of you moves, catching your breaths. You shake, feeling sweat stick to you all over your body.

Then Ashveil slowly pulls out, watching his release leak down the inside of your tights.

Before you can sit up fully, however, he catches your waist.

“No. Not yet,” he growls.

He pushes you back down, and drops between your legs before you can properly process what he’s doing. The first drag of his tongue through the mess between your thighs makes your entire body jerk violently.

“Ashveil—”

He groans against your hole instead, licking into you eagerly while cleaning you up, as if to either remove his stain from you or keep the part of you inside his body. He cannot stand wasting even this final intimacy between you.

It’s too much, and you’re far too sensitive post-orgasm. Yet every attempt to squirm away only results in him tugging you back harder while your cries grow increasingly pathetic against the pillows. His tongue pushes deep inside you, gathering every drop, before returning to your clit again, licking up every trace of wetness and cum alike with shameless greed until another smaller orgasm wrings through you embarrassingly fast.

By the time he finally lifts you upright between his legs afterward, your thoughts feel sluggish and disconnected. Still, little things begin surfacing unpleasantly through the haze now that the intensity has faded enough for your brain to function again.

All these months of him appearing where you are, just excused by his supposedly excellent detective skills. Knowing your dog’s tastes. That random receipt. The way he moved through your bedroom without hesitation. The way Princess calmed down too quickly—and, now come to think of it, he didn’t have any allergic reaction either.

The drawer thing.

Ashveil occasionally said something dumb, yet everything was somehow explained, but the drawer thing now bothers you especially. You feel so stupid, believing you should have done your research about him before getting friendly better, no matter how lonely you might have been yourself.

You notice the way his hold on you firms, as if he became aware of the dilemma that rules and shifts in your body language. You're scared at the thought of what he might do should you tell him that truth.

“You good?” he asks quietly, holding his face in the crook of your neck.

“Yeah,” you answer automatically, though uncertainty bleeds through your voice. “I just need to…” Then you try pulling away.

He lifts his head and eyes you suspiciously. “Something wrong?”

“No,” you say tiredly. “I just wanna use the bathroom.”

Ashveil watches you carefully for a longer moment before finally loosening his hold.

You stand up impetuously despite your shaky legs and begin gathering your discarded clothes against yourself.

“I see,” he says slowly. “I’ll wait here.”

But he does not believe you for even a second, his heart hammering in sudden distress. The moment you leave the room, he quickly dons on his clothes. Quietly moving closer to the hallway, he listens.

He can hear your voice, muffled and nervous—speaking on the phone.

Oh no.

He moves fast, pushing through the door. By the time the call starts connecting, he’s already behind you, snatching the phone from your hands before you can even notice him.

With your hand managing to grasp at least the bottom half of the device right in time, you quickly disconnect the line.

“Hey,” he says sharply, breathing heavily and trying to retrieve the electronic, “who are you calling? I told you the police would be useless in this situation.”

“I-it wasn’t the police!” you blurt out, lying. Your eyes open wider. “Wait… How would you know that.”

Shit. He just keeps implying things. “Who else would be you be calling at this hour?” he asks, bitterness rising into his voice. “A friend? So you can tell them you regret sleeping with me already?” He glares at you.

Yet his thoughts spiral into something much more fragile than the sense of disrespect. Real, honest fear he hadn't the occasion to experience in a while.

Please. Don’t ruin this for him.

“That’s not it—”

“Then what is it?”

“I wanted to…” Your voice trembles. “Order us some food.”

“You said you were going to the bathroom.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Then show me the phone.” His hand tugs on the phone you still clutch. “If what you’re saying is true.”

“That’s weird,” you say defensively, shrinking back. “You should trust me more.”

“And you should stop looking at me like I’m about to kill you.”

The words come out far worse than he intended, as Ashveil can see you flinch.

Silence stretches between you both and that damn phone, suffocating and ugly, until finally the pressure snaps and you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Were you the one stalking me?” you ask with small dread. “Breaking into my house?”

Ashveil stares; then he laughs through his nose, disbelieving, and steps closer to pull you against him before you can retreat further.

“What are you talking about?” He twist off and puts your phone aside on the small table before his hands settle on your arms in attempt of comfort. “Oh, I get it now. You’re exhausted all that happened tonight, and your mind is playing tricks with you. That’s understandable, sweetheart, so we should just rest—”

“It all makes sense now though!”

“What.”

“All those weird comments you kept making!” Your voice rises despite your worry he’ll snap. Even that rough sex seems worrying in hindsight. “You showing up everywhere I go, acting like you know things you shouldn’t! The lube thing! Someone breaking into my house and somehow knowing exactly what they were doing—” 

“It's not what you think it is!” he butts in, while nearly shaking you.

“That’s what people always say when it is what you think it is!”

Alright. Maybe you’re correct. Still, you are missing important nuance here!

Ashveil exhales deeply and rubs a hand over his face, more exasperated than angry. “Okay. Fine,” he acquiesces. “Maybe some things looked strange. But have I ever hurt you?”

The questions stops you from trying to pull away from his hands.

“So you can believe me when I say I don’t have bad intensions.”

He’s not denying it. He’s explaining it, sounding like someone already aware he has crossed too many lines to convincingly pretend innocence.

You feel bile come up to your throat, stuck in terror. He is your stalker, and you just have slept with him.

All those walks together, “accidental” or “deduced” meetings, all those services right in time— You can’t believe how blind you’ve been, but you don’t even want to imagine how many times he may have followed you, watched you, entered your home. You have a worse issue on your plate, your safety compromised.

You finally go for the door.

The second you bold away from him, ripping yourself from his grasp, Ashveil’s expression changes into something vicious.

“Come back here!”

You sprint through the apartment, heart pumping so hard it makes you taste blood. Unlike him, you know this layout—no, scratch that. He knows it too, much to your fear, and he’s fast.

You barely reach the hallway before strong arms hook around your waist from behind and lift you off the floor. You scream immediately as you kick and thrash against him.

“Let me go!” you scream. “Help me—”

He curses under his breath and quickly sets you down again to clamp a hand over your mouth so the neighbors cannot hear you.

“Hey, stop screaming!” he hisses desperately into your ear. “I’m not going to hurt you. You just need to listen to me for five minutes.”

You fight him anyway, digging your heels against the floor while he attempts to drag you backward, trying not to actually manhandle you harder than necessary.

Then unexpectedly, Princess arrives.

The barking explodes through the house once she sees you in your distress, loud and and furious enough to make Ashveil panic too.

“Princess!” you cry weakly against his palm, the sound muffled.

The dog only gets louder, teeth bared now.

Honestly, the betrayal stings Ashveil a little. After everything, all those treats and secret visits over beef jerky, he really thought they had achieved some sort of understanding. He could be her second owner. Even her dog father, in a horribly domestic fantasy he occasionally indulges in when particularly lonely. 

Turns out Princess is more like a queen of this kingdom, and she’s still loyal to you, choosing you over treats alike.

She’s a good girl which he should praise her for, but her timing is still extremely inconvenient.

“Princess,” Ashveil warns, “quiet!”

She barks even harder, not liking his tone at all. His pulse spikes at the thought of your neighbors hearing her and finding it alarming.

Ashveil hates himself for what he says next. “Tell her to stop,” he says coldly from behind you, “or I'll make her stop.”

It sounds a threat enough to you, as your sobs burst violently against his palm. It’s unbelievable he’s been such a bastard all along, now betraying you in the worst way imaginable for a pet owner.

He doesn't want to hurt the dog and he’d probably cry afterward if he actually had to, but the fear has already pushed him to resort to more extreme measures.

“If I move my hand,” he says more gently now, “will you calm her down without screaming again?”

You nod, terrified for Princess’s safety. So slowly, he lets go of your mouth.

“P-Princess.” Your voice shakes terribly. “Go. We're just playing.”

The whine you hear in response tugs at your heart.

“Please,” you beg her.

Princess hesitates for another second before reluctantly retreating down the hallway, her tail low.

Ashveil exhales in relief.

“See?” he says quietly, not sure if he’s reassuring you or himself. “Nobody’s getting hurt.”

You don’t answer, still scared, so he continues, “Listen.” He slightly eases his grip on you, though not enough to let you break free easily. “Here’s what's going to happen.”

But your terrified brain only hears: “here’s what’s going happen to you.” Especially if Ashveil he no longer looks like your strange detective anymore. He’s bigger, stronger, and definitely capable of vile acts. In a way no amount of self-deprecating humor of a pathetic dog at your doorstep can soften now; a broken-legged wolf finally cornered yet still having it in him.

Ashveil’s own thoughts are spiraling just as badly. He doesn't know what Mister N would do if he suddenly dragged home a terrified woman in the middle of the night. And if you disappear entirely, there’s every chance somebody connects him to you eventually, and he refuses to ask Pearl for help in something so revolting. You pass through with him by your side often, enough for some of the public to recognize you two.

He doesn't want your relationship destroyed completely either. Even with your trembling in fear in his arms, the desperate parts of him still want to salvage it.

“You and I are going to talk,” he says after brief pondering, trying to even out his breathing. He has to stay strong for the both of you. “You’re going to listen to me properly and realize I mean no harm.”

Right as he lets you go, his hand finds yours before leading you back towards the bedroom that now feels claustrophobic. Your obedience as you follow him is no more than anxiety towards repercussions.

This time, he sits down on your against the headboard with you trapped on his lap, arms wrapped around your waist while you remain stiff like a prey in freeze mode. The moment he presses his face into your shoulder, all of that aggression turns into something weary. 

Yet the fear he’s going to hurt you cannot leave, no matter how much he exposes his belly.

“It was one time,” he murmurs weakly. “Just this once.”

“I don't believe you.” You squirm on his lap, bracing your hands against his shoulders, but he only tugs you closer.

“Someone experienced at breaking into your house would not leave something as stupid as a grocery store receipt.”

Well, he would, but…

And to you, that sounds like a sound argument to you. However…“That doesn’t prove your innocence!” you argue with tears of fury prickling your tears as you glare down at him. “You could have gotten comfortable! And even if it were to be one time thing, that doesn’t make it okay anyway!”

“I know.” His voice cracks, quieter. “I know it doesn't. I just… needed to be close to you,” he looks you deep in the eyes as he says that, all sad-sappy. Then he hides himself in your shoulder again. “I’m sorry if it makes me look disgusting. Or frightening. Perverse. I know how it sounds.”

It’s a touch-and-go situation. One wrong sentence and perhaps you'll hate him completely. Or maybe you’ll pity him again. Or maybe you’ll find him even more disturbing, demanding that he disappears from your life entirely—he’d break apart like tawdry pottery right after.

As the admission settles heavily over your already addled head, his body suddenly jerks. You feel warm tears hit your skin, those that he cannot stop for once.

Truly a selfish man he is. 

At first, you almost think he's taking it deliberately—and some part of him is, leeching off your empathy. Ashveil is not stupid; he knows exactly how soft-hearted you are, and how difficult it is for you to stay angry at someone visibly suffering.

However, the tears themselves are real, falling shamefully no matter how tightly he clenches his jaw.

“I have no one left,” he says shakily, crumbling at your expense. “Do you understand that? I scrape together enough money to keep the lights on, I sleep in a damn refrigerator to ease my arm pain, people either hate me or want something from me, and then…” His grip around you tightens so much you almost suffocate. But he needs to hold onto you. “Then you happened.”

Your chest tightens painfully and it's not his because of his iron hold. All these weeks of him following you, hesitant at first, doing acts of service for you—wordlessly demanding to be useful. Lighting up at a simple nice sentence or trying to impress you dumb ways.

You thought he's just a people pleaser, someone who in the end wants to help everyone. Yes, he seemed a bit lonely, but you didn't anticipate this extent of grief.

“But why…” Your own eyes water even more from the pressure of his woes. “Why wouldn't you just ask to spend time with me normally? We already saw each other all the time…”

“It’s… different.”

“Different how. Are you being stupidly prideful or something?”

Ashveil goes quiet for a longer moment again. The real answer sounds pathetic. Saying “I wanted to be near you even when you weren’t choosing me, as humanly possible” is not something most people would admit aloud.

“No. I…” he weighs his words carefully, “I didn’t want to suffocate you. I know what I’m like, once I care about someone, I…” He laughs weakly through the tears. “I get attached, deeply. So I thought if I stayed nearby quietly, it wouldn't burden you.”

“And that warrants breaking in?” You look at the top of his head, your lip trembling at the thought.

“No,” he admits immediately. “To be fair, it sounds insane when said out aloud.” Another small laughs escaped him. “Cowardly.”

“Were you stalking me too?” you ask again.

“Define stalking.”

You stare at him with disbelief. “Ashveil!” 

No denial makes it clear to you.

He lifts his head, speaking frantically as it occurs to him that you’re at your wits’ end, he willing to admit at least something so you could find it within your heart to forgive him. “Fine!” He wipes his eyes aggressively with the heel of his palm, the other hand still holding your waist. “I followed you a few times. But only because Planarcadia’s dangerous and you have absolutely no survival instincts sometimes and—”

The slap cuts him off sharply, his head turning from the impact. He looks back at you slowly, smiling wistfully. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “I deserved that.”

He’d take that over you leaving him. You still haven't tried to kick him out—not that he’d let you succeed in it easily—which he desperately takes as a positive sign.

“Don’t stop,” he says with a quiver, tears still stubbornly clinging to his lashes. “Keep hitting me if you want, if it makes you feel better.”

And so you do.

It's easy to let anger overtake you after everything. Your palms strike his shoulders, his chest, his face once more, while something twists furiously inside you, wanting him to stop looking so miserable. He should stop acting like a kicked dog after frightening you half to death.

“How could you do something like this?!”

“I know

“You lied to me.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably.”

Yet Ashveil only takes it, not trying to defend himself, only making sure you don't leave his lap; as though punishment is preferable to the thought of you leaving him.

However, seeing him crying properly again, looking all the more shaken and choking on his sobs, the sight snuffs the rest of your anger out before you can continue. The lamp beside your bed shines light on how worn out to the bone he is, painting ugly caricature of the man you believed to know differently. The guilt, even if misplaced between you two, tears you apart.

“Stop being so meek!” you yell, starting to cry on your own. “I don’t know what happened to you, but…”

You truly don’t know and he doubts you’d want to know. Or maybe you would, striving to understand him as part of your empathy, and you’d simply frown upon the truth. About Kronstadt, La Mancha, battles full of hunger and destruction, companions reduced to fragments of themselves… About phantom pain and endless revenge, vendetta and the hunt, centuries spent surviving when he no longer wishes to.

“Hey, hey…” he murmurs, trying to bite down his tears. “Hey, it’s okay…” Slowly, he pulls you both back down onto the mattress, holding you and your trembling body against his chest. “We don't have to talk about all that tonight,” he whispers softly. “You’re exhausted.”

You do realize you should push him away, scream again, throw him out and never let him near you afterwards.

You must be insane or gullible or stupid or anything such, for you let him stay by your side. You curl yourself closer to him, needing some reassurance. You can’t pinpoint whether you're simply overwhelmed and he’s the nearest comfort to reach, you're just lonely on your own, or if somewhere along the way, Ashveil genuinely did become important to you. The responsibility now feels forced onto you anyway.

That choice to accept his touch elates his chest for a moment, he nearly laughs from the joy. Forgetting himself about his typical concerns and the price to pay for them should they be overlooked, he tucks your head under his before starting to rub your back. Holding you like this is as wonderful as he imagined.

“Can we…” he begins, a bit less torn, sniffling out the last sobs. “Can we try again? No more secrets like that this time.”

There will be secrets, of course. Things he can never safely tell you. But smaller ones, perhaps…

“I’ll be good for you. To you,” he promises like his life depends on it. “I need you.”

“I don’t want you to be good for me!” you cry out into his chest. “Just… be.”

The words affect him more than anything that has been done so far. Words he doesn’t deserve and that he mustn’t endorse, words that he still chooses to selfishly cling to. If he perhaps has only a few years left, he wishes to shine bright under your light.

“Then…” He swallows hard, his ears ringing from the surge of happiness that went suddenly through him; at least, the closest thing he’s felt to it in ages. A small ray of sunshine, overshadowing his guilt and dullness for a moment. “Will you let me stay near you?”

You know you shouldn’t. Every nerve in your body screams at you that this is wrong, unhealthy being the least intimidating and meddlesome part. He violated your privacy, lied to your face, manipulated you, and frightened you so badly you though this night might become your last.

But how can you feel anything but cruel when Ashveil cups your face so carefully, lifting your gaze at his, and looks at you as if you have handed something dying an unexpected reason to keep breathing? Perhaps some weak part of you recognizes that loneliness more than you would want to admit.

Against all reason, you nod your head against his palm.

Ashveil smiles.

Unlike yours, it isn’t a pretty smile at all.

★ and there you meet THIEF!SAMPO for the very first time. all it takes is a moment of separation from your knight to get swallowed up by the bustling crowd, panic consuming you as not a single face is considered familiar. all until you hear a sleazy voice ask can i help you, miss. it’s less of a question and more a statement, and your sweet, naive self graciously accepts his offer without a second thought- succumbing to his cheshire grin.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who is, admittedly, acting rather out of character when he sees you and decides to strike up a conversation rather than rob you of the pretty pendant adorning your neckline. there’s just something about you that makes you stick out from the crowd like a sore thumb, and it draws him to you like a moth to a flame. you’re hiding something, he can tell, and he’s determined to figure out what.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who insists that he’s a thief with standards, not some petty lowlife who follows women home and waits for his moment to strike. but his curiosity is piqued when he hears a man frantically calling your name, calling you his lady, and ushering you away from the festival’s grounds. and so he goes against his waning moral code, and tails the two of you. at a distance, of course.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who can’t help but notice the disparities between the two of you. how unaware you are of your surroundings, walking as if taking a stroll through the park while the man scanned every which way for signs of danger. a shame that he couldn’t quite notice sampo’s careful trail.

★ THIEF!SAMPO whose eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he realises exactly where you were all heading. he figured that you were rich, but royalty? that’s a new one, even for him. he decides to hang back now, merely observing as the pair of you enter the castle through a concealed opening in the wall, cogs turning in his head as he devises a plan for a heist that practically fell into his lap.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who counts his lucky stars when the palace soon announces a most extravagant royal ball, open for all nobles across all the lands to attend. security will be at its highest, but it’s child’s play for somebody of his calibre. he reaches out to his few contacts in the underworld of belobog, throwing together a costume for this masquerade ball befitting of a nobleman.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who shows up that very night, slipping past the checks for a name on the guest list, snagging a glass of champagne, and camouflaging himself in the crowd of high society debutantes who are much too wine-drunk to notice an earring or two going missing and just happening to fall into his nimble fingers’ grasp.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who is bemused by it all, at just how easy it is to make his way into the castle and most likely get away with enough jewels to drown him should he fall into a river. and then there is a lull in conversation, the crystalline sound of a spoon tapping against a delicate glass that cuts through the atmosphere and forces sampo to just look where everybody else does.

★ THIEF!SAMPO listens, rather than watches, as a man announces the very purpose as to why these fine people are all gathered here tonight- to find the princess a hand in marriage. the dots connect in sampo’s mind when attention is drawn to the grand marble staircase within the room, and he sees you appear at the top, looking much lovelier than you did at the festival all those nights ago. a shame that you’re to be betrothed, he supposes. you seemed like a sweet young woman.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who, painfully aware of the fact that he has to start leaving soon, cannot help but watch in awe as you descend the staircase, practically gliding your way down with grace and poise. but even from his place in the crowd he can tell that your demeanour is entirely different from when he met you in person, muted and contained as opposed to your more free-spirited enjoyment of the festival.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who, against his better nature, pushes his way through the crowd along with all other princes from across the lands, getting to you just that bit quicker, and offering his hand to dance. the way you look up at him, eyes seemingly memorising his every feature, makes his heart skip a beat in a way he assumed it was no longer capable of doing until now. and the pair of you dance, much to the chagrin of every other potential suitor. he even catches the eye of that blond man who had accompanied you, who scowled at him with an icy glare that looked like it could tear him apart from where he stood, positioned by the doors.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who merely responds by holding you a little closer to him, scandalous enough to make the older women titter. but instead of embarrassing you, it is him who is caught entirely off guard when you raise up to your tiptoes, lips grazing his velvet mask, and whisper into his ear how you remember him, and how you didn’t know princes lived in villages with a conspiratorial smile right as your first dance with him ends.

★ THIEF!SAMPO who sees the royal guards beginning to close in on him, but before he leaves he swears to himself that he’ll find a way to see you again.

★ and after you watch the violet-haired man disappear once again into the crowd with a farewell glance over his shoulder, you are soon swept into the arms of none other than PRINCE!BLADE. moments before you had made your appearance, you had been informed of one specific suitor that it was imperative you danced with as soon as possible. the prince of a neighbouring kingdom, one that would be a most valuable ally to have, the royal advisor had emphasised to you. he had neglected to show you a picture of the man, but something in your heart of hearts told you that it was him leading you across the dancefloor right now.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who is handsome, painfully so, but his disgruntled face somewhat mars his features as he frowns down at you and asks who that man was. he seems displeased by your shrug of an answer, though still continues to dance with you, hands and feet guiding you through the waltz with all the precision and artistry of a robot.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who remains silent until the end of the song, not relinquishing his grip on you, and much to your surprise leading you directly into another dance and ignoring the other suitors waiting their turn. who murmurs to you in his raspy voice, barely audible over the swell of the orchestra, if you know that this is all a charade. you remain as poised as ever, the slightest shake of your head indicating your answer as the prince sighs, before guiding you into a spin.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who turns out to be the first to inform you of the fact that it was a predetermined decision that the two of you are to be wed as soon as possible. he smirks at the briefest expression of shock that passes over your face, the song ending and him kissing the back of your hand before taking his leave. every dance after his absence is agonising, the urge to run to anyone and find out whether this was true or not almost too overbearing to handle. your knight gepard seems to notice this frustration, as he whisks you away from the ball the first chance he gets, listening in attentive silence as you rant about this new information before finally retiring to your chambers and falling into a fitful sleep.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who turned out to be entirely right as your royal advisor oh-so-graciously informs you the next morning to prepare for the upcoming arrangements of your wedding. Not even a month later there’s a royal procession, for you to be hosted most graciously by the young king blade at his own estate. your ladies in waiting are permitted to accompany you, though your bodyguard is to be left behind as a show of good faith (much to his chagrin).

★ PRINCE!BLADE who welcomes you personally when your carriage arrives safely within his grounds, cordial but without warmth. there’s a dead look in his eyes that makes you shiver, that makes you shrink into yourself within his presence, and the start of your official courtship is stony, with a dead silence in the dining halls spare the occasional scrape of your utensils.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who starts these mandatory dinners seated all the way at the other end of the table. rows and rows of seats separate the two of you, though you were sure that any amount of distance between you would do little to quell the iciness of his presence. all traces of his amicability from when he had danced with you at the ball seemed like they had happened in a different lifetime so long ago. maybe they had, you supposed.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who leaves you alone, for the most part. he makes no further efforts on his part to engage with you beyond what he has to, leaving you to your own devices to entertain yourself day to day. sure, you had your belongings and staff brought with you to reside within his castle, but the new surroundings were only so exciting before the novelty wore off. he joined you for walks around his castle's grounds for the sake of the courtship, which felt more salt in the wound than cordiality with the outcome of marriage being one and the same regardless of how these few months proceeded.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who seems as thrilled as you do at this prospect. but nonetheless, the two of you play your part, leisurely walks across his grounds and meals together always supervised by some chaperones. and despite the pair of you being in the exact same predicament, he seems to direct his frustrations at you- his responses to your questions curt, barely touching you unless he absolutely had to, dialogue so painful you almost preferred the silence.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who does little to quell your fears of ending up betrothed to a contemptuous man. you try to put on a brave face, be as warm and as friendly with him as possible- and shiver in the coldness that creeps into your mind and body as you console yourself at night. you think that you do well at containing this fear to your private chambers, though there are moments far and few between where blade appears to pierce through your veil, his dull eyes sharpening as they hone onto some tell in your face that you could not identify in your practiced expression in the mirror each morning.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who gradually, oh so slowly, begins to warm up to you. if you blinked you would miss it, but it's in the slightest details of how he acts around you. the twitch of his fingers against your palm as he guides you across his gardens. his usually rigid gait pausing to allow you to truly soak in your surroundings, the way his gaze softens a touch as he watches the wonder upon your face, before he remembers himself, coughing and straightening up as if it had never happened.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who, despite all intentions to remain detached, cannot resist your charms. if he remained cold, this would all be so much easier, he thinks to himself. a line in the sand that would remain undisturbed, would not impinge upon his waking and dreaming thoughts. would not have him finding himself hoping for the first time in a long time.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who finally bares himself to you, if only slightly. it was a particularly juvenile decision on both of your parts- the warmth of the spring day must have caused some error in his judgement, for he found himself bending to reach your ear, pleased to see the way your breath hitches as his lips brush your skin. how you can only nod as he whispers to you, asking if the two of you should run away together right now.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who tugs you alongside him, an odd lightness in his step as he hears your breathless laugh, the two of you weaving through tall shrubbery until you are well and truly alone, away from watchful eyes. who laughs without the weight of the past holding his face sullen, as the two of you catch your breath most desperately.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who lets himself bask in the moment just a little moment longer before reality sets in again. before the outraged shouts of your chaperones became too audible. he takes a hold of your hands, so delicate against his bandaged and scar-mottled skin, eyes finally meeting your surprised ones with something akin to life swimmng in his

★ PRINCE!BLADE who swears to you, then and there, that despite the unideal nature of your engagement, he shall do everything he can to make it bearable. who promises you that you need not be his wife in private should you not wish to be.

★ PRINCE!BLADE who doesn't give you a chance to respond before making the two of you known to the small search party, who does not wait for you to tell him that you would not particularly mind being his wife, no matter the occasion

you’re sitting beside him, trying to focus on the map spread across the table. the lantern light flickers gently, casting warm shadows across the wood. lohen leans over slightly to look at the same spot you’re pointing to.

you don’t notice at first.

until you realize how close he is.

his shoulder brushes yours, and you freeze immediately, your voice faltering mid-sentence.

“…s-so if we take this route-”

you lose your train of thought completely when you feel his breath near your ear. it’s not intentional — he’s just leaning in to see better — but your face heats instantly.

lohen glances at you.

“…did you forget?” his voice is quiet, curious.

you shake your head quickly. “n-no, i just-”

you accidentally turn your head toward him.

which is a mistake.

because now he’s even closer.

you can see the faint details of his expression — the calm focus in his eyes, the slight tilt of his head as he studies your face. he doesn’t move away. if anything, he leans just slightly closer, like he’s trying to figure something out.

“…your face is red,” he murmurs.

you immediately look away. “it’s just warm in here.”

“…is it?”

he glances around the room thoughtfully, then back at you. his hand moves without much thought, resting lightly against the table beside yours — effectively trapping you between him and the wood.

he doesn’t seem to realize what he’s doing.

but you definitely do.

your heart starts racing.

lohen leans in again, his voice softer now.

“you always do that.”

“…d-do what?”

“get quiet when i’m close.”

your breath catches.

he’s still watching you, eyes gentle but intent, like he’s genuinely curious about your reaction.

“does it bother you?” he asks.

you open your mouth, then close it again. your brain feels completely scrambled. “i-it’s not… i mean…”

lohen shifts slightly.

his knee brushes yours under the table.

you nearly jump.

he notices immediately.

“…sorry.”

but he doesn’t move away.

instead, he studies your expression again, like he’s trying to understand why such small contact affects you so much.

“you’re trembling,” he murmurs quietly.

you look down, embarrassed, realizing he’s right. your fingers are gripping the edge of the table, your shoulders tense.

lohen’s hand moves slowly, hesitantly — like he’s giving you time to pull away — before his fingers gently touch yours.

it’s a light touch.

barely there.

but your entire body reacts instantly.

your breath hitches, and you freeze.

lohen goes still too, watching carefully.

“…you really are sensitive,” he says softly.

there’s no teasing in his voice.

just quiet observation.

that somehow makes it worse.

you try to pull your hand back, but his fingers curl slightly around yours — not tight, just enough to keep the contact.

“is this okay?” he asks gently.

you nod quickly, even though your face is burning.

he relaxes slightly, his thumb brushing lightly across your knuckles. the movement is slow, absentminded, like he’s not even fully aware he’s doing it.

but you definitely are.

your heart feels like it’s trying to escape your chest.

lohen glances at you again, noticing your expression.

“…you’re even redder now.”

you let out a small, embarrassed sound. “p-please don’t point it out…”

he tilts his head slightly, something soft appearing in his eyes.

“…it’s cute.”

you freeze completely.

“w-what?”

he doesn’t seem embarrassed by the comment. if anything, he looks thoughtful, like he’s only just realized it himself.

“when you get flustered,” he continues quietly, his fingers still loosely holding yours, “your eyes move everywhere except at me.”

your breath catches as he leans slightly closer again.

“but when i say something unexpected…”

his voice lowers just a little.

“…you look right at me.”

your eyes snap to his automatically.

he notices.

and smiles softly.

“like that.”

you don’t know what to do with the way your chest tightens.

lohen’s gaze softens further, his thumb still brushing slowly across your hand. the room feels smaller somehow, quieter, like the rest of the world faded away without you noticing.

he leans just slightly closer, stopping before it becomes too much.

“tell me if i’m making you uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

you shake your head quickly, even though your heart is racing.

lohen watches you for another moment.

then, very gently, he squeezes your hand once.

not teasing.

not possessive.

just warm.

this does not mean he doesn't like your outlandish and grand displays of affection, though; its actually the opposite. (LOL)

the true crux of the matter lies in his inability to let down his guarded pride to admit that he thinks your affection is his lifeblood. (basically, “ew, affection... do it again”)

he's a menace (affectionate), and if you were one for critiquing that aspect of his character, you wouldn't have been in a relationship with him by now, anyway.

however—there is always a however when it comes to him—this does not mean that wanderer doesn't come across points of anxiousness over the fact that his less than affable personality may be something you will grow sick of one day.

he knows he isn't the best choice of a romantic partner; seriously, what were you even thinking... but when he establishes that you are indeed now an irreplaceable part of his life (which will take a long time, good luck), he clings to you with a fierce desperation underneath all that thorn and bristle.

this is part of his visceral fear of abandonment—you are the one thing that he adores, cares for with his entire being (nahida as a close second), and to watch you slip away from him due to his own misgivings will spell out a death sentence for him.

(so please, treat him gently; cradle his cracked palms and broken psyche, and slowly, emphasis on slowly, but surely, he will learn to return in kind.)

this ‘clinginess’ comes forth in his proximity to you. once he has felt comfortable with your relationship, wanderer is quite unafraid to show how touchy he is in his own way.

whether that is to get groceries in your shared home, following after you like a second shadow when you go to the grand bazaar, or even shooing away people that harass you (tba), the wanderer's gaze and all his efforts are always directed to your will.

(you dubbed this as ‘scary cat boyfriend privilege’—and are rewarded with a painful flick to the forehead. ouch.)

—☆★☆—

“where are you going?” the slender hand that stops you from leaving your comfy bed does little to help your need to fall back into the blissful arms of sleep.

“just going to go get some water, kuni.”

waking up to the sight of the wanderer in all his divine glory certainly isn't one of the things you expected in your life, but you welcome it all the same. leaving a simple kiss to his forehead, you pry your hand away with a gentleness you reserve only for him.

he flushes, a lovely red adorning cheeks, to the span of his neck. oh, how you love seeing him melt.

“you won't take too long?”

he doesn't need to breathe, but he sucks in a breath anyway, face twisting to a deep set frown—your telltale sign that your kunikuzushi had a nightmare.

an unanswered question. you won't leave?

your hand caresses the silky soft strands of his purple hair, that in which wanderer nuzzles into. he doesn't seem keen on telling you, and you respect that. you'd wait for him as long as he'd like.

“of course i will. not going anywhere, silly.”

why would i? you convey in that same gesture. i love you.

the tightness of his face relaxes, his grip on your hand loosening. right—you weren't. (you were not going to abandon him.)

“hurry up and come back, then. it's far too early.” his voice is still thick with sleep, though that doesn't temper his signature sass at all.

i love you too. goes unsaid.

your grin sharpens, teasing. “aww, don't miss me too much, okay?”

anddd there's the signature scowl. “...never mind, don't come back.”

“hey!”

shuffling to hide his face from you, wanderer sports a genuine smile, hidden from your sight.

because in your presence, the wanderer stills, and all thoughts of a doomed eternity fall short of how he commits himself to you—wanderer loves and loves, loves you, for you nestle in the space his heart was meant to be, holding onto the mere wisps of your identity and weaving it into the mosaic of his soul.

it's silent save for when you plop yourself back to the bed, bearhugging wanderer and complaining about waking up early again because you stayed up all night playing tcg with him. (he's at 10 wins and 5 losses and he was not going to be caught lacking).

“you do realize that's entirely your fault, right?” he gloats. “it's not my fault my card bested that lawachurl of yours.”

“what?! no way, mister! my all geo team is still superior, mind you-”

once, wanderer wondered about the concept of infinity.

everlasting devotion. of unabashed care and trust. as he listens to your ramblings as the night falls to day, he figures that what you currently share fits that concept just fine.

# observation two: (very) jealous tendencies

it isn't in wanderer's intention to be jealous. well, so he says.

really, he isn't! after all, what was there to be jealous of? absurd! looks, intellect, an extensive range of vocabulary not limited to insults and creative verbal attacks; wanderer boasts quite the sizable number of pros that get most people falling at his feet. (his outward personality leaves much to be desired, however, but his snark does have a certain charm. probably).

and of all the bashful akademiya seniors and well-intentioned young women (and men), you managed to get into a relationship with this black cat of a derisive puppet. this is an achievement worthy of celebration, for not just anyone can take the wanderer and burrow into his many, many guarded walls and claim the title of being his lover.

yet, wanderer is the more jealous one in the relationship.

he knows that you won't cheat on him, and trusts that you won't look at others in such a way. but still, your boyfriend can't help but doubt. be patient when working out his jealousy, for it is a double edged sword—on one hand, wanderer was so adorable when he was jealous; sulky, clingy, hot you name it! and it was very flattering, knowing that he loved you enough to want to keep you all to himself.

but, the other side was quite... a piece of work. should you attempt to tease him about such a thing, it ends in three ways. one, him flying off to god knows where and leaving you alone (😐), two, restricting you from hugging and giving him affection (😭), and worse, giving you the silent treatment (😨). choose your ammunition wisely.

and from this, be prepared for the wanderer to monopolize your attention all to himself— with said admirers mysteriously off the grid or too afraid to approach you for fear of his wrath. i'll say it once: a jealous wanderer is a force to be reckoned with. (and we love him for it)

(he was chided endlessly by nahida for this; “you're scaring all the researchers that want to do a thesis review with [name]!” she says.

a sly smirk was his only reply).

—☆★☆—

“what, and here i thought he had more bark left in him.” wanderer huffs haughtily, with the researcher dashing away as if his life depended on it.

“you'll get scolded by nahida again, you know. i don't think the dendro archon's trusted aide should boast a terrifying reputation.”

he snorts. “lesser lord kusanali has better things to do than chide me for harassment.”

“but you don't have better things to do than scaring away poor kimiya?”

that gets you an eye roll that could reach massive highs of ‘what about it?’ from your boyfriend. “you're overthinking.” (translation: you're right).

“uh huh, sure i am.”

“whatever. who you talk to and interact with is none of my concern. it's not like i care about such things anyway.” he retorts. “i'm not possessive.”

so he says. “by the way, his pickup line was pathetic—‘are you anemo because your beauty blows me away’? atrocious.”

your eyebrow raises in return. really, who was speaking about “not caring” and then judging right after? well, it's fine because he was kinda right.... cyno would definitely get along with that guy.

“it was sincere! i think he has to be commended for his efforts, no?”

“you call that effort?” his face scrunches to a dissatisfied frown.

kinoya, kimiya—he doesn't even remember his name anymore. wanderer doesn't care for those that waste his time, and more especially to those that attempt to get close to you in particular. honestly, what a cheap trick.

and you! you were seriously humoring that moony researcher earlier. you even smiled at him! wanderer seethes, crossing his arms. “its quite irritating, knowing that they flock to you under the guise of—what was it he said? right, ‘shared academic pursuits.’ it was too obvious.”

“first of all: that's rude, second, he really needed help! anyone would feel sorry for him.” you tut, pinching the smooth of wanderer's palm. you wisely decide not to comment on how he immediately interlocks hands with you.

you snicker. “and he was only asking for advice on his research topic, silly.”

“hah! how nice — you're defending him now.” it's incredible how wanderer has the uncanny ability to be just like an annoyed cat that dunked itself into a bucket of cold water; and the way he frowns at you only makes you let out an even worse fit of laughter.

wanderer drinks in the sound, resonating it with the beat of his soul, your laugh the heartbeat echoing deep within his veins. he is reduced to nothing with you—with you, his face relaxes; wanderer may be indifferent to humans, but with you, your mere existence is enough for him to falter like a human, weaken like a human.

and weakly, perhaps in an attempt to save face, he speaks, “you didn't deny it.”

“deny what?”

“...defending him.” (if he were a cat, his ears would definitely fall flat right now).

you let out another light laugh, but sparing your lover the torment, you cling to the side of his arm instead.

“i never had such intentions.” stating it quite firmly, “i'm only saying that there's no competition to be made, darling.”

he gives you a skeptical look in return. “was there even any?”

“none at all.” you lean closer to him, and the wanderer leans into the touch of your hand on his cheek. “since you're winning.”

the flustered blush you receive and the subconscious squeeze of his hand in yours conveys all you need to say.

that did the trick. wanderer's smile is satisfied—smug. “clearly, you managed to make the right call for once.”

“well, i could hardly resist you.”

afterwards, you note that the wanderer's pace doesn't seem as fast as usual anymore. no matter the jaw dropped stares of others at the two of you cozying up together, he never let go of your hand once.

(the next day, kimiya comes to you with a sheepish smile saying that he'd like to focus on his own without your help.

“was it your doing?” you look at the wanderer by your bedside table fastening his vision in pace, voice deadpanning.

“hah? why would i waste my time over some insignificant mortal?” he replies, but as he's putting on his hat, you see him smile to himself.

that little...)

# observation three: secretly? protective/considerate (green flag!!)

if you ask anyone who knows the wanderer on a personal note, you'd find out that he is, indeed, quite considerate—hidden underneath alllll that snark and aloofness and haughtiness, the wanderer cares for those who have helped him in some way, and with you as his partner (romantic), that care is multiplied tenfold hundredfold.

this quality of his, despite being endearing on paper and practice, is reminiscent of that of an aggressive mother hen; if you count wanderer as a hen that pecks someone incessently to show his care.

he chides you like an exasperated young maiden, but the soft way he handles your bruised arm littered with injuries from your recent run in with some strange fontainian seahorse contradicts his harsh scoldings.

(“bested by a fish? are you serious?”

“excuse you, i needed to get it's horns for materials, okay?!”

“...remind me why i'm stuck with an idiot for a companion.”

“uh, because i have a great personality, and you love me?”

“a decision i've made that's quite hard to defend, honestly.”

you stick your tongue out at him. yes, his habits also become yours.)

or how he tells you you're hopeless at cooking, but always manages to excuse himself to cook for you the moment he notices even the slightest decline in your health. one concern though; he throws the bento towards your head—so minus points for domesticity. (...he has cut heart shapes into the vegetables before and has never been the same since.)

if there's anything you can count wanderer for, he will do it. you could ask him to attempt to pluck the very fabric of reality for you, string together the stars and leave them at your feet, and he will do so, huffing all the while (he never means it). he's just smitten like that; not that he would ever verbalize it—yet. his hushed and vulnerable whispers of asking you to let him stay by your side are your closest road to his admittance.

he will not serenade you with ‘shallow declarations of love,’ as he tells you, but you know that he will always be there for you, for better or for worse.

—☆★☆—

fury is an emotion wanderer was once very accustomed to—it reminds him of electric violet, of three betrayals and of yearning for a constitution he was never fated to reach.

and fury tugs at the strings of his being the moment he sees the droplets of tears fall from your eyes, blurring your vision.

“who did it?” something bitter and violent manifests in his countenance, his vision pulsing angrily with gales threatening to harm. (it does not harm you, though. it never does.) “who did this to you?”

his grip on your shoulders tightens the more you refuse to answer, both from anger and fear. you're never this silent; and his panic increases when you opt to bury yourself in his neck. wanderer sighs.

“hey. i'm asking who made you cry like this, idiot.”

“...”

“fine, i won't call you an idiot, then.” but impatient way he speaks the syllables that make your name betrays his worry. “just talk to me.”

“...can we just stay here like this?”

“....”

“sorry, that was a little-” you say, voice strained, pulling away; but the wanderer tugs you close, allowing you to hide from the world that seems so out to get you. (he knows that feeling well, after all.)

it's he who entangles himself with you, listening to the steady rise of your heartbeat, wiping away your tears.

“i didn't say you couldn't hug me, stupid. it's fine. do as you like.”

if it were a person that did this to you, that would've been better murder was never really out of the table with him, but when faced with something he is unable to solve for you; whether it be a bad day, bad luck, or even something he cannot control, wanderer finds himself at a loss.

because the concept of love, with you, is foreign—terrifying, even. betrayal and scorn were his guiding compass, and to be rid of it and to be seen by you, held by you, and to know that you were not going to follow in the footsteps of those he once clung to was far too good to believe. (yet he tries. for you.)

returning your embrace only passively, he tries to scramble for words of comfort—and when he fails to find the nerve to do so, he does the only thing he can allow himself to do.

with the kindness and gentleness he fostered (still fosters, thanks to you) from his memories as the kabukimono, the wanderer holds you, if only to remind himself of his place by your side, unchanging and adamant—as you remind him of his place beside yours.

he leads you to calm yourself down, albeit roughly as he tells you to stop fussing over trying to help him get you something wipe your tears with—and for all his flushed visage, he lets you cling to him, seeking his comfort.

i'm here, it goes unsaid. wanderer knows you'd pick up on it anyway. please talk to me.

(“if i die from this, i'll come haunt you as a ghost.” you shake like a leaf in his arms, clutched tight and staring at anywhere but the ground. who comforts someone by putting them almost 80 feet up in the air? heights are so not your thing.

“like i'd let you.” wanderer says, rolling his eyes. “and you're shaking too much. just keep your eyes on me, will you?”

“...was that flirting?”

“i will drop you.”

“wait, i'm kidding!” a particular breeze leaves you in goosebumps, with wanderer tightening his grip on you. “don't let me fall, please?”

“are you stupid?” he snaps, but urges you to look at the sight of the sunset on the horizon. his hold is more gentle this time, too. “why would i let you fall? now stop shaking and hold on to me.”

you think you fell just a little harder for him that day.)

—and if you decide to press a kiss to the back of his nape as a way of thanks, you're rewarded with a playful gale and a little zap to deter you in response.

“watch it, [name].” he says, but the shifty eyed way he doesn't meet your eyes isn't fooling anyone here; neither is the red on his cheeks. “you're too close.”

“hehe, sorry, sorry, couldn't resist.”

nonetheless. he supposes the growing smile on your face in place of your tears are sufficient payment for wanderer's efforts. hmph.

he'll let it slide for today.

(he does a lot of that when it comes to you.)

# deciding conclusion: totally in love with you (real not clickbait)

saying it outright: being with the wanderer is not a smooth road. it is full of hardships, hurt, and learning. there will be many times when his built in self destruction (read: abandonment issues) will kick in, hurting you in the process.

getting him to say ‘i love you’ will seem impossible at first, and there will be times when his doubt pierces your heart and renders it tattered to pieces. he's doing his best chat, pls help him

he will not be able to utter sweet words of adoration like you do, or return your embrace as easily as you would with him—and there will be many moments when he will feel as if he's not enough.

but nourish your affections, stay consistently by his side, show him that he is worth loving, worth staying for, and like the foundations of a steadily built tower, his trust and love for you too will grow.

(it will sometimes feel tiring, it will feel hopeless, and it's more than what you've bargained for, but it will all be worth it in the end.)

because you know he cares; it's in the way his expression morphs into helplessness when he sees your face fall in an argument, how he doesn't push you away when you kiss him and shower him with hugs, and when his hands lock tightly in yours in a sea of people, with you only in his sights. how his eyes betray him to look at you with fondness and warmth.

(it's wordless whenever wanderer decides to hold you tight at night, hugging you like his last lifeline. especially after a disagreement, with only the quietude of the night to observe.

he said some hurtful words today. that much he knows.

“are you asleep?” his voice is muffled against your shirt, and he may not need to breathe, but he inhales your scent anyway, memorizing the sight of you in his arms like a promise. “...you probably are.”

silence. “i'm sorry.”

“.....”

his lip trembles, his grasp on your arms bruising if not for your non-awareness. there's a wetness growing against your shirt, and small sniffles.

“i'm sorry.” and gently, so gently, wanderer presses his forehead against your shoulder, feeling the rise and fall of your body. “i shouldn't have snapped at you and told you those sorts of things.”

i'm sorry i hurt you.

please stay.

please don't let go of me.

i need you.

i love you.

when morning comes, you wake up to the sight of the wanderer in your bed, face nuzzled in your chest.

there are tearstains on his face.)

getting him to be open and vulnerable is akin to keeping a rusty, torn boat afloat; it will not be easy, no, but you know that he tries, (so very hard) to make it work. that he fights desperately against his own clumsily strung tethers and rebuilds himself anew, if only to understand and perceive you—to love you as you deserve.

and when that time comes, wanderer will cling to you, desperately, completely, and make sure your efforts will never ever make you regret giving him the chance to open up and be with you.

—☆★☆—

“what would happen if we ever broke up?”

dropping such a bombshell in the middle of having the wanderer on your lap was not how he thought things would go to, granted how pleasant the atmosphere was—he'd agreed to going on a much needed date (your words) with you after lesser lord kusanali had just graded him on one of his essay papers. (he got an a, obviously)

you don't think you've ever seen such a distraught look cross wanderer's face—aside from the time you finally beat him at tcg (5 out of 4); and you've never seen him look so angry either.

rather, he looked scared.

“what brought this idea on?” he tries to lodge out the words, trying to act coherent. but underneath, a storm brews—his hands are shaking. wanderer feels like he's swallowed a bag full of needles.

am i not doing enough? was i too harsh on them when i scolded them for fighting that damn mechanical desert robot? he's scared. or... do they really....

the mere idea of you being tired of him—sick of him, and ready to leave him behind leaves an ugly, disgusting feeling. like acid on his skin.

perhaps, you don't love him anymore? wanderer panics, senses going overdrive. was it that argument months ago when he hurt your feelings? he knows you know he apologized, and he's doing everything in his power to make sure he wasn't repeating that mistake anymore—but why would you say this out of nowhere?

or maybe it's because he didn't notice you feeling uncomfortable in your relationship? no, you would have definitely told him if so. then what is it? you don't just say things like this out of nowhere so seriously-

“i mean... at this point, i think i wouldn't ever want to break up with you.”

“...what?” wanderer blinks.

“you heard me.” cupping the sides of his face with your hands, you restate your words with more vigor. eyes determined. “i don't think i've ever loved someone so much as i love you. heck, not even close! kuni, if we break up, i might actually never recover.”

and the wanderer falls. how could you even say such a thing?

“that's... you're shameless.” he states it like an insult, but his hands go up to hide his eyes, hiding his embarrassment from your romantic words. “why would you even say something so out of pocket like that? you utter fool. you almost made me think i-”

- would lose you. even thinking it made him feel nauseous.

“why are we still dating then? but really, i mean it. i love you too much.” you coo, and that, in return, leads the wanderer to release an exasperated, weary sigh. if he were human, he's sure his blood pressure would never be normal because of you.

but contrary to his attitude, he relaxes his face and allows you to hold him. lightens up, even. you continue, rambling on, “be honest, you know you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

and that brings out such a bright and dazzling smile on your face that the puppets sarcastic smile is replaced by a real one when you huff and smack at his head. (all is well.)

“you're so unromantic.”

indeed, being with this strange, eccentric puppet was certainly a challenge in more ways than one. nonetheless, you know he cherishes you—because with you, the wanderer is different. he's bristly, infuriating, and honestly a pain (lovingly), but he cares for you.

he tells you to stop ogling at his pretty face and do the dishes, yet he never minds the attention at all. he tells you that you were a fool for accidentally getting yourself injured by eremites because you wanted to save some fungi, but follows you anyway and makes sure no one messes with you.

he says he probably wouldn't miss you while you're gone, but is always the first person you see when you return to sumeru city. it's these little things that make you love him, and you know the feeling is mutual—even if he'll act indifferent about it in the meantime.

“hey, kuni?”

wanderer's eyes are closed, serene. once he knew that you were not, in fact, going to break up with him, he relishes the feeling of his head resting on your lap. it was safe, warm, and everything to him; but he'd rather let the world burn before he tells you. “what?”

“thank you for letting me love you.”

....

“...idiot.” is all he says. you can feel him shift to the side so you won't see his face. “you don't have to thank me for that. that's so sappy...”

(and if you ever saw the slight sheen of glossiness in his eyes, you keep it to yourself.)

i should be thanking you. he thinks instead. i'm glad you love me.

so many things pop up in his head for this, so many unspoken words—and he may not be able to convey such things to you; he might never be able to, but you know that he loves, loves, and adores you.

because you accepted his past, his sins and his imperfections and treated him with tenderness and care. and you know that no matter how many sides of the wanderer you have yet to explore, you will love each one.

and that is enough for him to never let go.

Ashveil is a detective.

That part is non-negotiable. It’s printed on his card, etched into his reputation, whispered about in places that smell like smoke and bad decisions. He finds things—people, truths, sometimes missing pets, sometimes missing Aeons, though it depends on how generous the pay is and how annoying the investigation would sound.

Ashveil also takes odd jobs.

That is not advertised on his card.

These include jobs like tailing someone’s ex to confirm if they’ve really moved on. Odd jobs like pretending to be someone’s long-lost uncle. Odd jobs where he has to act like a child’s parent for a parent-teacher conference.

He’s done it multiple times—in fact, parent-teacher conferences are easy. You sit, you nod, you pretend to care about spelling tests and quiz bees. You mirror concern just long enough to look convincing. And you don’t think too hard about why the real parents aren’t here.

He’s filled in all kinds: parents who were “too busy,” parents who “forgot,” and parents who decided money was easier than being there for their children.

Ashveil does the job well. It’s not difficult. Caring is easy to fake when you’re good at reading people. So when he takes this commission, he’s not expecting anything new.

It isn’t the same school he’s gone in before, but it might as well be. Same kind of hallways. Same chairs that look like they were designed more for aesthetics and not for humble adults’ comfort. Same posters about responsibility and growth and trying your best, all slightly crooked, all clearly printed by someone who believes very deeply in children.

It’s a different school, but it is the same routine—walk in with the kid, exchange pleasantries with the teacher, and pretend this is a normal arrangement that makes sense in a functioning universe.

He is prepared for all kinds of things.

He is, however, not prepared for you.

He hasn’t even fully stepped inside the room when he stops abruptly. The child he’s supposed to be acting as a parent for bumps into his back with a soft thud.

“Mister?” comes a small, confused voice from behind him.

Ashveil barely hears it because you’ve looked up.

You’re sitting behind your desk, sunlight catching just right on your face, expression open and friendly instead of wary or tired. He registers the room only distantly—the tables, the chairs, the walls filled with all kinds of drawings—because all of it fades around the simple, convenient fact that you are there.

“Oh, hi,” you say, smiling. “You must be a parent?”

Ashveil stops thinking.

No—correction. He thinks too much all at once.

Pretty, his brain supplies, unhelpfully. And then immediately after: young. Not in a way that undermines you—you’re just younger than he expected. Younger than any teacher he’s ever dealt with on jobs like this.

Most of the time, it’s men with tired eyes and coffee-stained ties, or older women with clipped voices and the air of someone who’s raised three children, taught thirty classes, and buried their patience somewhere around the previous decade. Women who could, very feasibly, pass as his grandmother.

You are none of that.

Ashveil realizes he’s been standing in the doorway too long.

“…yes,” he says finally, stepping inside like nothing happened. “I’m Adi’s father.”

Behind him, the kid relaxes. In front of him, you gesture toward the chairs, still smiling. And Ashveil sits, posture straight and expression composed—doing his best to look like a man who absolutely did not just fall a little in love at first sight. The kid drops into the chair across him, legs swinging.

“Hello again,” you say. “Thank you so much for coming in today.”

You’re really friendly, Ashveil thinks distantly. And something in his chest flutters at the sound of your voice, light and warm, and for a second he wonders if he misjudged how long it’s been since lunch.

He ate, though. A lot, in fact, so this can’t actually just be hunger.

“Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat and forcing his brain back into place. “It’s no problem. I need to be there for my child, after all.”

He straightens a little in his chair. He just needs to pretend like a real, good father. It’s easy. He’s played more complicated roles for worse pay.

You beam at him anyway, like he’s just said something incredibly meaningful.

“Thank you for being here for them,” you say, and the sincerity in your voice makes his stomach do a slow, unpleasant flip. Then you glance down at your notes, blissfully unaware of the damage you’re causing. “I’d like to start by saying Adi is a joy to have in class.”

Ashveil hums, nodding along. Of course you’d say that—that’s usually how these meetings start. Compliment first, then slide into the concerns. He knows the pattern like the back of his hand now. Still, he finds himself leaning forward, like this matters more than it’s supposed to.

He listens. Mostly.

The problem is that while you’re talking, his attention keeps drifting—not away from you, but toward you. Your face, your expressions, the way your brows knit slightly when you’re choosing your words carefully. He realizes that staring is impolite, so he looks away for a second before looking right back again.

The kid kicks his shin under the table. Ashveil ignores it.

“They’re very imaginative,” you continue, flipping through your notes. “They’re a little distracted sometimes, but they mean well.”

“Don’t we all,” he says without thinking.

You look up at him, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s said something wrong. But then you laugh, genuine.

“I suppose that’s true,” you say. “Adi especially.”

Your smile lingers and Ashveil realizes he’s staring again. He forces his gaze back to neutral, and nods like a man who looks like he absolutely has his life together and is not sitting in a chair meant for someone else while pretending to be a parent to a child he technically just met.

And he did. He got a call last week asking for his services—if he could act as someone’s father for a parent-teacher meeting—and he agreed in exchange for, well… some candies. A whole bag of them actually. The client was a child, after all, and food is food; Ashveil isn’t the type to waste things like those.

It’s not written on his card, but he does remember putting posters with his assistant here and there about his services, printed and taped in various locations—bulletin boards near corner stores, a community center corkboard, some phone booths, and even the back wall of a laundromat.

He would’ve expected calls like those coming from tired guardians, maybe even older siblings. What he hadn’t expected was a small, hesitant voice asking if he could “stand in” just once. Just for a meeting. Just so someone would be there. So now here he is.

It’s fine, he tells himself. He’s done stranger things for less.

“This is my first time meeting Adi’s father,” you say, smiling. “You, I mean.”

That smile of yours is a goddamn problem.

Ashveil nods once, a little too quickly. “Right,” he says.

“You’d be surprised how often no one ever comes,” you continue. “During parent-teacher conferences, it’s usually just me and Adi. So… seeing you here today really puts my mind at ease.”

Something warm and sudden and unfamiliar tightens in Ashveil’s chest. He drops his gaze to his lap before he can stop himself.

“Work,” he says, flustered. Then he pauses, clears his throat, and tries again. “My work. It—uh, it tends to take up most of my time.” He exhales through his nose, glances up at you, then away just as quickly. “That’s why I couldn’t come before. Not because I didn’t— I mean— I wanted to, but you know, it just— yeah.”

Smooth, he thinks sarcastically. He risks another look at you then, brief and cautious, like checking for damage. You nod, accepting it without question, and that somehow makes it worse.

“But I’ll make time,” he adds, the words tumbling out before he can reconsider them. “From now on. I mean—when there are meetings like this. Or events. If he needs someone there, I can— I will come.” He shifts in his seat, posture straightening like that might pull him together. “I’ll figure it out.”

Your face lights up.

Ashveil’s brain stalls completely. He looks at the wall, the desk, at Adi, or just anywhere that is not your face because if he keeps looking, he’s scared he’s going to say something else he can’t take back.

“That makes me really happy to hear,” you say. Then, brightening further, “Oh—actually, that reminds me. In a few weeks, we’re having Parents’ Day.”

You explain it—games, activities, parents and kids together, laughter filling the school. Ashveil hears pieces of it, but most of his attention has slid sideways, locked onto the kid across from him.

Adi is staring at the floor now, shoulders tucked in, feet planted flat like he’s bracing for something.

Ashveil swallows.

“It would mean a lot if you could come,” you finish, expectant.

He looks at Adi. Then back at you. Then down again.

“Yeah,” he says, then winces internally and forces himself to try again. “I’ll be there. For Parents’ Day, I mean.”

Adi’s legs kick forward instantly, swinging again, faster this time.

Ashveil exhales, long and quiet, and tells himself that this reaction is completely unreasonable, and absolutely not your fault.

Even if it feels like it is.

“That’s wonderful,” you say, clearly delighted.

Ashveil nods, a little stiff, like moving too much might undo whatever fragile promise he’s just made. “Yeah. Uh… good.”

“Well,” you add gently, closing your notebook, “thank you again for coming in today.”

“Of course,” Ashveil says immediately, then clears his throat. “We should… We’ll get going.”

He stands, gesturing for Adi to follow. The kid hops down from the chair, still buzzing, legs kicking once for good measure.

At the door, Ashveil hesitates just long enough to regret it, then turns back. “I’ll see you on Parents’ Day,” he says, voice steadier than he feels.

You smile again. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

And then they’re gone, the door clicking shut behind them.

Adi keeps pace beside him for exactly three steps before the question bursts out.

“Are you really coming, mister?”

Ashveil makes a face without meaning to, eyes flicking up to the ceiling like the answer might be written there. He slows, sighs, runs a hand over his face.

“…yeah,” he says finally. “I’ll be there.”

Adi lights up instantly—eyes wide, grin stretching across his face—only for it to flicker, uncertainty creeping back in just as fast.

“But,” the kid says, smaller now, “I don’t have anything to pay you.”

Ashveil snorts softly and reaches out, ruffling Adi’s hair. “Nah. It’s free of charge.”

Adi blinks up at him. “Really?”

“Yup,” Ashveil says, grinning, sharp and toothy. “Just make sure you put in a good word for me with your teacher, alright?”

“Okay!” Adi beams. Then he tilts his head, curious. “Do you like my teacher, mister?”

Ashveil hums, thoughtful, eyes drifting back toward the classroom door as if he can still picture you, smiling like you hadn’t just completely unraveled him.

“…yeah,” he says at last. “They’re really pretty.”

© 2026 kominigiru.

“do you want to get furboeats?”

you make a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a protest, still half-buried in the aftermath of a decision you’re going to pretend you didn’t make. the room he got in this shoddy love hotel is exactly as disreputable as he promised. creaky bedframe, cheap sheets, and a mirror bolted to the ceiling.

you catch your reflection in it and immediately regret looking. the bastard had left a scatter of bite marks and darkening bruises that would get you written up in any other line of work.

you drag a hand over your face. “are you going to explain what that is?”

at the foot of the bed, ashveil glances up from his phone, faintly pleased with himself. “oh. it’s a food delivery app. places like this don’t do room service.”

“tragic.”

“i adapt.”

you stare at the ceiling instead of him, which is arguably worse, because the mirror insists on showing you both anyway—him intact and already bored, you looking like you lost an argument with a wild animal. which, to be fair, you did.

you don’t know why you keep coming back.

not a single soul has seen la mancha in years, and since your last encounter with the old wolf, you’d gotten good at moving on and letting certain names rot where you left them. you thought you’d finally kicked it, this particular vice filed neatly under mistakes you made when you were younger and significantly dumber.

but then the ipc decided to broadcast the supplicants of the phantasmoon games in planarcadia, and there he was—second place like a bad habit with a leaderboard.

you should’ve ignored it.

instead, you tracked him down.

again.

“so?” ashveil prompts. “you eating or sulking?”

you close your eyes. “i was aiming for a conversation.”

he laughs, patronizing, right before crawling back on the bed and settling between your legs.

“you always say that.”

half an hour later, the food arrives in a crumpled paper bag that looks like it lost a fight on the way up. ashveil nudges it open with one hand, already halfway disinterested, and passes you a burger like this is the most normal follow-up to what just happened.

you take it. because, evidently, this is your life now.

for a while, the room settles into something quiet—just the faint hum of whatever passes for infrastructure in planarcadia, the rustle of paper, the soft give of the mattress every time one of you shifts.

that’s when you notice it.

his arm.

you’ve seen it before, of course. hard not to, when he makes no effort to hide it. but you’ve never had the misfortune of staring at it this long, this closely. the prosthetic is sleek where it should be, functional where it needs to be, but the shadows... they move beneath his skin, curling and crawling like veins of some sinister power. like something lying in wait.

your gaze drifts lower, to the nails driven clean through his wrist. they were not decorative in the slightest. no, they had one purpose only.

containment.

you don’t realize you’ve stopped eating until he speaks.

“if you stare at it any longer,” ashveil comments lightly, “it might start thinking you’re interested.”

“…is that supposed to be reassuring?”

“no,” he says, taking another bite. “it’s supposed to be advice. monsters get attached to attention. best not to encourage them.”

you hesitate. because you can’t quite tell if he means the thing in his arm or himself.

he glances at you then, and smiles. it’s the same as always: easy, unreadable, the expression of a man who knows more than he’s willing to share. his slate-gray eyes, deep enough to pass for calm until you look too long, hold yours for just a second too much.

“you said you wanted to talk, rookie.”

you frown. “i haven’t been a rookie for an entire amber era.”

“oh?” he tilts his head, faintly amused. “time does get strange when you’ve spent half of it in cryo-sleep.” a shrug. “either way. ask. i’m feeling chatty tonight.”

you look down at your burger instead.

it’s absurd, really. the whole thing. the phantasmoon games, his participation as a supplicant, and the fact that you’re sitting here at all. nothing about planarcadia fits the logic you’ve spent your life relying on, and somehow, someone like la mancha fits into it perfectly.

you swallow, then decide to ask anyway.

“why here?”

ashveil hums, like he didn’t quite catch it. “what’s that?”

your grip tightens slightly around the wrapper. “why did you choose this place as your graveyard?”

that gets his attention. because you’ve spent long enough chasing his shadow to know the difference between evasion and interest, between something he’ll brush off and something he’ll circle. you don’t chase him, you bait him.

this, you’ve learned, is how you make a wolf stop running.

ashveil doesn’t answer immediately. he leans back on one hand, the other resting loosely over his knee. the arm that imprisons something more dangerous than he is stills, and for once, the shadows subdue like they’ve been told to behave.

“no one here asks questions that matter,” he tells you plainly. “not quite like you do, rookie.”

you glance up to meet his eyes, but they’ve drifted somewhere past you and the dingy walls of the love hotel. somewhere you can’t possibly reach.

“places like this,” ashveil continues, “they don’t care who you were. what you did. what followed you here.” a pause. “things get lost in the noise and the fanfare.”

you don’t like the way he says that.

“you don’t strike me as someone who wants to be lost.”

he huffs in amusement. “no?”

“no.”

“…everyone ends up somewhere they can afford,” he says finally. “this just happens to be mine.”

you stare at him. it’s not an answer. not really. but it’s closer than anything he’s given you so far.

your eyes flick back to the nails in his wrist. the way they hold something down that very clearly does not want to stay there. the faint, almost imperceptible shift of shadow beneath metal.

you look away first, because you’ve never learned how to hold the intensity of his gaze. no matter how many years or systems or selves you’ve shed along the way.

“whatever you say,” you mutter. “ just… keep in touch with boothill and rappa sometime. they worry about you more than you deserve.”

for a moment, he says nothing.

but you’ve spent enough time tracing the outline of this man to recognize when the version of him that slips through your fingers gives way to something more tangible. the faraway look dissolves, and what takes its place is warm in a way it has no business being.

the mattress dips as ashveil leans in, crowding you back without force. his prosthetic hand braces somewhere beside you, the other settling at your hip, and suddenly you’re aware of him in a way that has nothing to do with how you knew him in your memories, and everything to do with him now.

“oh?” he murmurs. “and you’re not worried about me? the ranger who gatecrashed ahatopia the moment they caught my scent again?”

the brush of his mouth is barely there, but his teeth sink into the lobe of your ear without a second thought. the smallest reminder of what he is, of what he’s always been.

it would be easier if he were simpler.

if he were cruel, or careless, or even just honest in a way that could be pinned down and understood. but ashveil has never been any of those things, and you do not pretend you’ll ever untangle him into something comprehensible.

he is what he is: a question without a clean answer, a man who carries too much and explains too little, and you’ve long stopped asking him to.

that is the only reason he lets you catch him.

the only reason he lets you stay.

“i didn’t say that,” you sigh, the words thinning at the edges as his mouth ghosts along your throat.

ashveil answers with a quiet hum before the distance you’d tried to carve out collapses entirely, and he pulls you back into something you know you will never quite learn to refuse.

because as long as he’s still here—as long as he’s still something you can find if you look hard enough—you can afford to ignore the rest. turn a blind eye to the parts of him that don’t make sense.