Comet

To be straightforward, you harbored a certain crush for the enigmatic member of Team Eager. You don’t know how it happened.

It just did.

There was something about his mysterious nature that dug under your skin; the quiet confidence in his voice, the calm sharpness in his gaze, the way he moved like he’d seen everything and judged none of it. Being near him made your mind spin and your heart misbehave. This constant behavior implanted a fear of him possibly finding out.

So, naturally…

You chose the most logical solution to this problem.

You avoided him.

Not dramatically — that would be too obvious.

You simply rerouted your movements whenever you heard his footsteps. Took longer hallways. Entered the cafeteria only after confirming he’d already left. If he walked into a room, you suddenly remembered something very urgent you needed to do elsewhere.

It was a flawless strategy. It’s genius.

You started to cheer to yourself, even patting yourself on the back for it.

There’s no way he would find out.

You underestimated him.

You should’ve known someone like Tamsy; observant, deliberate, always three steps ahead, wouldn’t overlook something as glaring as your sudden disappearance from his orbit.

Which is why, when you slip into the storage corridor behind the training hall to avoid crossing paths with him for the third time today, you don’t expect him to already be there.

Leaning against the wall. Waiting.

You freeze in the doorway. He doesn’t speak right away, just lifts his gaze and pins you with it. Calm. Sharp. Patient. Like he’d been expecting you to walk right into his hold.

God, why was he so painfully handsome.

“Tamsy,” you manage, fighting to keep your voice steady. “I—I didn’t see you.”

“Clearly,” he says.

There’s no accusation in his tone, no irritation, just quiet certainty. Somehow, that’s worse.

You take a step back.

He takes one forward.

The hallway is narrow. Too narrow. You’re suddenly very aware of the cold wall pressing against your spine and the warmth radiating off him as he stops in front of you — close, but not touching.

“Tamsy,” you say again, softer this time. “I… I was just—”

“Avoiding me.”

Your throat tightens, beads of sweat starts to form on your skin, “No.”

He tilts his head slightly. Not convinced.

A beat of silence passes. A sudden ringing sound clogs your ears, and shame slowly taking over. His gazing towards you like you did some sort of crime. You couldn’t even look straight at him, the possibility of getting rejected by him is high now.

Your heart hammers against your ribs loud enough that you’re certain he can hear it. His eyes flick down, to your lips, to your trembling hands, before returning to meet yours again.

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks, and his voice is so calm, so painfully sincere, that it knocks the air from your lungs.

“No,” you blurt, shaking your head. “You didn’t. You never did.” He studies you for a moment. Then —

“…Then why are you running?”

Your pulse jumps. Your fingers curl against your sides.

He leans forward just slightly, carefully, like he’s giving you space to push him away if you want to. But you don’t. You can’t. You’re stuck between flight and surrender, and he’s standing patiently in the middle.

“Unless,” he adds quietly, gaze unwavering, “there’s something I’m not seeing.”

You swallow.

Words tangle in your throat. Panic flares. The confession claws its way up before you can hold it back—

Oh no

“I like you.”

It slips out — small, raw, breathless.

His eyes widen just a fraction.

You immediately slap a hand over your mouth, RUN. EVAPORATE. DO SOMETHING. “—Forget I said that!”

“Too late.”

He steps even closer now, bracing one hand beside your head on the wall — still not touching, but surrounding you entirely.

“Say it again.”

Your breath stutters. “Why?”

“So I know I heard it right.”

He’s closer now. Close enough that you can see the subtle lift at the corner of his lips — not quite a smile, but something dangerously close.

You stare at him, cornered and helpless, heart thrashing like a trapped animal. As much as you like this man, he can be quite intimidating!

“I..” you whisper. Not having the strength to look straight into his eyes, “-I like you.”

Your confession hangs in the air, fragile and trembling, like a secret that could shatter if either of you breathed too loud.

“I like you,” you repeat, barely more than a whisper.

Tamsy’s eyes darken, not with shock, nor amusement, but with a quiet intensity that roots you in place.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand lifts.

You freeze as his fingers brush your cheek, tentative, like he’s giving you time to pull away. You don’t.

His thumb lingers there, warm against your skin.

“…May I?” he asks softly.

You nod before your mind even catches up.

He leans in, not for your lips.

His forehead presses gently against yours, grounding yet dizzying all at once. His breath fans softly across your face.

Then, featherlight, reverent, he places a kiss on your cheek. Your knees nearly buckle, you can hear your own heart pounding in your ears.

He doesn’t pull away immediately. His lips remain there, lingering as if to make sure you feel every second of it, you let out a silent whimper as the cold metal of his piercing brushed your cheek, your hand clutches weakly at his sleeve, anchoring yourself.

When he finally draws back, he doesn’t stray far. His forehead rests against yours again, eyes half-lidded, his voice a soft murmur only you could hear.

“Don’t avoid me anymore.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your voice from shaking, your mind was slowly processing the kiss. “O-Okay.”

A moment of silence passed. Not awkward, not heavy, just the lingering thought of the boy who you were pining over for who knows how long, was the first one to make a big move, and kiss you! On the cheek too!

His fingers trail from your cheek to your jaw, tilting your head slightly as if memorizing you.

“Good,” he whispers, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Mischievous, so handsome, it makes you melt into a puddle all over again.

“Because next time this happens again… I won’t hold back.”

著者 : how I actually imagined this btw

@ 2025 PETALPAYE ✿ ━ do not plagiarize, copy, modify, translate my works ! divider by: @h-aewo

"Y/n! Where should I put this?" Rudo asked, approaching you with a clay head in his hands, one you had made.

"Oh! Let Zanka carry that. He’s more careful with my things, and I know he won’t break them," you replied, smiling at Rudo while carrying a few paintings toward Enjin’s car.

Zanka heard your words and couldn’t stop the blush that spread across his cheeks. He crossed his arms, acting nonchalant, and clicked his tongue.

Rudo walked up to him and carefully handed over the sculpture. Zanka examined —as always— every detail of the piece, and the only thing he could think was: "It’s so you."

Fine, precise details in every strand of hair, flawless anatomy, soft and androgynous features. He didn’t want to sound conceited, really, but for a few seconds he couldn’t help thinking how much the sculpture resembled himself.

"Zanka." Your voice pulled him back to reality, and he looked at you. "Hey, I was talking to you and you didn’t hear me..." you said, crossing your arms as you looked at him.

"Sorry, I got distracted," he replied with a calm smile as the two of you began walking toward the car, where all your art was already packed and Enjin was waiting.

"It’s okay. I was saying the others are going to walk around the market after helping me set up the stand. Will you stay with me or...?"

"I’ll stay with you and help you," he answered quickly and without hesitation, earning an immediate little laugh from you.

"Aww, you’re so sweet." You lightly hit his arm, making the sculpture wobble and startling him. "Oops, sorry, don’t drop that."

Zanka watched you walk ahead of him as he slowed down. He looked again at what he was holding; there was something warm in his chest when he looked at you, and he couldn’t help but smile.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

The fair was crowded, like every year, which meant good earnings for you and plenty of enjoyment for the others as they explored the stalls. The team quickly helped you set up your stand before wishing you luck and heading off to wander, leaving you with Zanka and your art.

"Are you sure you don’t want to go? I wouldn’t mind," you asked as you arranged two folding chairs for both of you.

"No, I want to stay with you," he replied without looking at you, adjusting a painting that wobbled slightly on its easel. He was quite surprised when a pair of arms wrapped around his torso. "What are you doing?"

"Thank you..." your voice sounded muffled because your face was buried against his back.

Zanka smiled fondly as he gently stroked your hands. He soon took them to pull you away and turned around. He placed his hands on your waist, and the two of you looked into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. The air between you was filled with love and tenderness, and Zanka really wanted to kiss you right there, but he felt too exposed and vulnerable showing how much he felt for you in public.

"Hello!" A voice made both of you turn your heads toward the counter, where an elderly couple was looking at some paintings while one of them waved at you.

"Your first customers," Zanka said, letting go of your waist so you could go attend to them, and you quickly did.

You approached the counter, greeting them with a kind smile as the elderly couple carefully examined your work.

"They’re truly beautiful," the woman commented, gently running her fingers along the edge of one of the paintings. "They have something very… alive, and lovely."

"Thank you, I’m really glad you like them," you replied warmly.

Zanka, from where he stood, remained silent but attentive. His eyes weren’t really on the customers, but on you: the way you spoke, how your hands moved as you explained each piece, that particularly bright spark in your eyes whenever you talked about your art.

"And that sculpture?" the man asked, pointing at the clay head Zanka had carefully set on the table.

Your gaze shifted toward it for a second, then you smiled, softer this time.

"That one… is special," you said.

Zanka felt something tighten in his chest, though he didn’t quite know why.

"It shows," the woman added. "There’s a lot of affection put into it."

"We’ll take it," the man decided with a calm smile.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise before you nodded with a soft laugh. "Of course, thank you very much."

Zanka said nothing, but he felt a strange mix of pride and… something harder to name as he watched you carefully wrap the sculpture.

The rest of the day passed between sales, occasional laughter, and small shared moments. Sometimes your hands brushed when arranging something, sometimes you exchanged brief glances, enough to say more than words ever could.

When the sun began to set and the fair started to empty out, the two of you stayed in silence, packing up the last of the stand.

"You did really well today," Zanka commented, carrying one of the boxes.

"Yeah… thanks to you too," you replied, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

There was a pause.

"About the sculpture…" he began, not looking at you directly. "It was good."

You let out a small laugh. "Just good?"

Zanka clicked his tongue, but didn’t complain. "Very good."

You set down what you were holding and looked at him directly.

"It looked like you."

The silence that followed felt different.

Zanka stayed still for a second, processing your words, before slowly turning toward you.

"I knew it," he murmured, though there was no trace of teasing in his voice.

You stepped a little closer, enough for the space between you to feel minimal.

"That’s why I didn’t want to sell it at first," you admitted softly. "But… I guess it’s okay. Someone else got to see it the way I do."

Zanka frowned slightly, not out of annoyance, but something closer to discomfort… or maybe vulnerability.

"And how do you see it?"

You didn’t hesitate.

"With affection."

The words lingered between you.

Zanka exhaled slowly, and this time he didn’t step away. Instead, he took a small step toward you, gently closing the distance.

"Then make another one," he said quietly. "One you won’t sell."

You blinked, surprised. "What for?"

Zanka placed a hand on your waist, firm but gentle, his gaze briefly dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"For me."

The world around you seemed to shrink into that moment.

There were no onlookers, no market noise, no interruptions. Just you and him.

And this time, Zanka didn’t hesitate.

He closed the remaining distance and pressed his lips against yours in a brief kiss, but one filled with everything he hadn’t wanted to show all day.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

"…and don’t sell it," he added softly, almost like a warning.

You smiled gently.

"I won’t."

But he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t joking with the others, either. He stood there quietly, holding a small amulet between his fingers.

You stopped before you could remind yourself that staring was rude.

Gris bowed his head and murmured something under his breath. The words were almost impossible to make out through the noise of headquarters, but the weight in them was unmistakable. They were too serious to be a habit. Too gentle to be nothing.

It sounded like a prayer. A quiet, stubborn, deeply sincere plea to the world: Please, bring them all back.

You stood in the doorway with the bandages pressed to your chest, and for the first time, it occurred to you that Gris Rubion was afraid.

Not the way people trembled before danger. Not the way some froze because their minds had already imagined every terrible ending.

Gris was afraid in a different way. The way a person was afraid and still walked at the front, because someone had to be there first. The way a person was afraid and still stayed at the rear, because someone had to make sure no one was left behind. The way someone counted survivors after every mission not with their eyes, but with their heart.

The way someone smiled, because if he didn’t, the others might notice how exhausted he was by the thought that one day, someone might not come home.

You meant to leave before he noticed you. Instead, the floorboard beneath your foot gave a soft, traitorous creak.

Gris lifted his head. Your eyes met.

For several seconds, neither of you said anything. You stood there, feeling as if you had been caught doing something shameful, even though, if anything, he was the one whose privacy had been stolen. He was the one holding his amulet. He was the one whose quiet prayer had not been meant for anyone else.

“I’m sorry,” you said first. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Gris looked down at the amulet, then back at you. There was no irritation in his expression. Only a faint trace of surprise, and then that gentle smile of his, the one that always made something traitorously warm bloom inside your chest.

“You didn’t interrupt.”

“I was watching.”

“Only a little.”

“Gris.”

“Barely at all,” he corrected, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You sighed, but you couldn’t quite smile back. Gris noticed immediately.

“What is it?”

Your gaze dropped to the amulet in his hand.

“Do you do that every time?”

He was silent for a moment. The noise in the hallway seemed to fade. Somewhere behind you, a door slammed. Someone called out another person’s name. But it all became distant, blurred, as if, for a few breaths, the two of you had been sealed away from the rest of the world behind a thin sheet of glass.

“Before every mission,” Gris said at last.

“For yourself?”

He gave a quiet laugh. Not mocking. Just soft, as though the question had been too simple and the answer too obvious.

“For everyone.”

Somehow, you had known he would say that. It still hurt. You took a step closer.

“And does anyone pray for you?”

Gris blinked slowly, as though the question had struck him harder than any blow could have.

“Well…” he began.

Then he stopped. A bitter little smile touched your lips.

“I see.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?”

He ran his thumb along the worn edge of the amulet. His gaze shifted, becoming quieter, more serious. It was the kind of expression he rarely allowed himself to wear in front of others.

“I’m used to being all right.”

“That’s not true. You get hurt too.”

“I can take pain better than most.”

“Don’t say stupid things.”

Gris looked at you carefully. You realized, too late, that the words had come out too sharply. Too angrily. But you didn’t want to take them back.

Because he was standing right there in front of you: alive, warm, real. With that old scar by his eye, with his light hair never quite lying the way it should, with those large, powerful hands that somehow knew how to be both strong and unbelievably gentle.

And he was talking about himself as though his own safety was not a necessity, but a pleasant addition to a successful mission. It made you furious enough to shake.

“You can’t just say you’ll be fine,” you said, quieter now. “The world doesn’t become safe just because you’re strong.”

Gris watched you for a long moment. Then, all at once, he smiled.

“You’re angry because of me again.”

“Not again. Still. And don’t smile like you think it’s cute.”

“But isn’t it?”

“No.”

“Not even a little?”

“Gris.”

He raised his free hand in surrender.

“All right. Whatever you say. It’s not cute.”

The smile, unfortunately, remained. You were about to protest when he suddenly held the amulet out to you. You froze.

“What are you doing?”

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“Please.”

And somehow, that one word was stronger than every sensible objection you had. You set the bandages down on the nearest crate and slowly held out your hand. Gris took it carefully. So carefully, as if he were afraid of holding too tightly, even though you knew exactly how steady his hands could be.

He placed the amulet in your palm. It was small and warm from his touch. Old, worn smooth in places, marked by thin traces of time.

“I usually ask for everyone to come back,” Gris said. “For no one to get lost. For us to make it in time. For everyone to have enough strength. For me to notice danger before it reaches someone else.”

You listened almost without breathing.

“And today,” he said, softer, “could you ask for me?”

Your heart struck hard against your ribs. You lifted your eyes to him. Gris looked at you without his usual humor, without that easy softness he used to keep everything from becoming too heavy. For the first time since you had known him, he didn’t look simply reliable. He looked like someone who wanted to be waited for. You closed your fingers tightly around the amulet.

“I can.”

He nodded, but he did not let go of your hand right away.

“Just don’t say it so seriously,” he muttered. “You’ll make me feel awkward.”

“That’s fine. You’ll survive.”

“No mercy from you today?”

“Get used to it.”

He laughed quietly. This time, the sound came easier. You looked at his face, at the faint shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes, at the old scar, at the calm line of his mouth. Then, almost without thinking, you stepped closer and lifted your hand to his chest. Gris did not move. You pressed the amulet against him, right over the place where, beneath the thick fabric of his clothes, his heart was beating.

“Please come back,” you whispered.

Only three words. But they carried everything you were too afraid to say aloud. Come back alive. Come back whole. Come back unharmed. Come back not only for the team.

Come back to me.

Gris slowly covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and large, roughened slightly by work and battle and all the things he carried without complaint.

“I will,” he said.

You frowned.

“That can’t just be something pretty you say.”

“I understand.”

“Gris.”

“I really do.”

He leaned a little closer, and the space between you became dangerously small. The corridor was still noisy. Someone could pass by at any moment and see you standing far too close to him, your hand pressed to his chest with his amulet trapped beneath your palm.

But you didn’t step away. Neither did he.

“Now I have someone to come back to,” he said quietly.

Your fingers tightened around the amulet.

“You always did.”

“Yes,” Gris said. “But now I know it.”

You didn’t know what hurt more, the words themselves, or the way he said them. As if they mattered. As if your voice had reached some place inside him that he had never let anyone touch before.

You opened your mouth to answer. Then, from the corridor, someone shouted:

“Gris! We’re moving out!”

He closed his eyes for one brief second and sighed, as though the world had, as usual, chosen the worst possible moment.

You couldn’t help the small smile that slipped onto your face.

“Go.”

“You get angry when I leave with untreated scratches.”

“You don’t have any scratches right now.”

“Not yet.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“All right, sorry. I understand. I’m quiet.”

He gently took the amulet back from your hand. But before he tucked it away, he lifted your fingers to his lips and brushed a short, impossibly tender kiss over your knuckles.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For asking me to come back.”

You swallowed.

“I’ll ask every time.”

Gris smiled. This time, he didn’t hide behind a joke.

“Then I’ll have to come back every time.”

“Exactly.”

He stepped toward the door, then looked back once. There was so much left unsaid in that brief glance that, for a moment, you felt almost frightened by your own tenderness.

Then he was gone.

The noise of the hallway rushed back around you. Headquarters became ordinary again: loud, restless, alive.

But you remained by the window for a long time, holding the hand his lips had touched close to your chest. And for the first time, you understood that waiting did not have to be only fear. Sometimes, waiting became a promise. Small and warm. Like an amulet in someone else’s palm. Like a quiet prayer before departure.

He didn’t even mean this in a bad way. You weren’t spoiled like the Nijikus or acted above everyone else. You were just neat.

Your clothes were always clean, layered and styled. Trimmed nails and hair that never looked tangled - even after missions. You smelled faintly like soap instead of smoke and blood and rust.

The first time Enjin saw you fixing the collar of your coat in a cracked mirror he genuinely thought you had gotten lost. Someone like you should’ve been up in the sphere - not down here beside people like him.

He cringed at himself for thinking that way. You were kind and talked to everyone the same way. Not once you had acted superior.

No, you were found joking around with the cleaners. You sat with rudo and the kids to doodle and share snacks. Enjin had once seen you sewing riyo’s jacket with a tiny sewing kit you carried around.

You belonged here more than most people. Still, Enjin’s brain couldn’t stop thinking about the difference between you and him.

Somehow his brain also added Gris to the mix. Gris with his composed appearance and smooth confidence. Gris who looked out together with his shiny blond hair. Gris who could stand beside you and just fit there.

Enjin compared himself to his friend a lot after meeting you. The ash that clung to his fingers. That he has really prominent knuckles. His tattoos that covered part of the truth and could been seen as aggressive to someone polished as you.

You didn’t smoke. Fuck, the smoking.

One night he caught sight of himself in a window reflection while lighting a cigarette and immediately put it out.

Zanka got real nervous watching this. “Are you sick?”

Enjin scoffed. “Shut up.”

But afterward he stared at the crushed cigarette under his boot and wondered if you hated the smell.

It got worse over time. Every little interaction sat under his skin for days.

He watched you smiling at Gris. Once you adjusted follo’s collar while talking to him.

It was the fucking fact that you looked so natural standing beside people who looked cleaner, calmer, prettier.

Enjin started avoiding you without even meaning to. Fuck. It wasn’t his intention, okay?

But he’d leave rooms. Stood further away during meetings or just hang outs. He pretended to be busy. Because each time you smiled at him hope blossomed in his chest.

Hope was a dangerous for someone like him.

The thing he failed to realize was that you noticed his absence.

Your expression fell a bit when he stopped sitting beside you or how he stopped joking around with you. He didn’t tease you at all anymore and you didn’t knew why.

Maybe you had upset him somehow

At first you thought maybe you’d upset him somehow until semiu spilled the beans, having mercy with the two of you.

“Dude’s losing his mind because he thinks you’d prefer Gris.”

“What?”

“You didn’t know, huh? I’m not surprised. Dude’s not known for talking about his feelings.

Suddenly everything made sense to you. And oh, your face grew warm. That was something you could work with and finally talk to him.

In the evening you got your chance when you found Enjin alone on the roof of headquarters, leaning against the railing while smoke curled into the air beside him.

You walked over quietly. “Can I sit here?”

Poor man nearly jumped as he stared at you. “Yeah. Sure.”

You sat beside him and for a moment neither of you spoke. Then you reached over, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, and took the last drag of it. Enjin stared at you in absolute horror.

“That was my last one.”

“You can survive.”

A weak laugh escaped him as he shook the head. You snipped the cig bud over the railing and it was so unlike you. He liked it.

You glanced at him carefully. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“I haven’t.”

“You have.”

“A little.”

“Why?”

Enjin rubbed a hand over his face.

‘because you’re too pretty for me. Because standing beside you makes me feel filthy. Because I look at Gris and think yeah, obviously you’d pick someone like him.’

He couldn’t say any of that aloud. So instead he shrugged roughly. “You just seem more comfortable around cleaner guys.”

The second the words left his mouth he regretted them. You blinked confused.

“Cleaner guys?”

“Y’know.” he gestured vaguely at himself. “Less… this.”

Oh he sounded so fucking bitter. You stared at him for several long seconds before realization softened your face.

“Oh.”

Shit. Can he please rewind and push all the words back into his throat? His jaw twitched as he spoke up again.

“You don’t gotta pretend or anything. I know what I look like.”

“Enjin.”

“You and Gris make more sense.”

“Enjin.”

“He’s—”

“Enjin.”

Your hand grabbed his wrist firmly. It shut him up instantly.

“You really think I’d choose someone based on how polished they look? Do you really think so low of me?”

He didn’t answer, because yes. No. Yes. But he didn’t think low of you.

You sighed softly, thumb brushing against the tattoos on his wrist. “I like your tattoos and those hoops in your ears.”

“What?”

“And your hands,” you smiled softly. “They look warm.”

Something genuinely helpless crossed his face. Nobody had ever described him as warm before. He knew he was the connection for many of them, but being described as warm was new.

“And for the record,” you added quieter now, “You’re really handsome.”

What?

His entire body went still. Handsome? Him? You weren’t lying either. He saw you once lying. It was terrible.

Heat climbed violently up his neck. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“No it isn’t.”

“It is.”

“You need your eyes checked.”

You laughed softly and the sound nearly killed him. Suddenly all those awful thoughts in his head felt quieter.

You shifted closer until your shoulder bumped his and you rested your head against his shoulder. Not caring that you smudged your pants on the dirty roof or that he cleaned his coat, well, many many moons ago the last time.

“I don’t care if you smoke,” you murmured. “Or if you’re rough around the edges. None of that scares me.”

“You should be scared,” Enjin whispered.

“I’m not.”

Enjin looked down at your hand still resting over his tattooed wrist and felt something painful bloom in his chest. Again the hope, but this time it didn’t feel ugly.

“Give me a chance,” you added quietly. “I’m more than clean clothes like I know you’re more than tattoos and cigarettes.”

Boyfriend!Gris who despite his calm and kind nature, becomes dangerously serious when someone hurts you. He doesn’t raise his voice or make a scene… but his eyes say everything. He’s the type to first make sure you’re okay, and then (if he deems it necessary) personally deal with whoever hurt you. Not out of blind impulse, but with a calmness that’s far more intimidating than any outburst.

Boyfriend!Gris who loves to pick you up in his arms as if you weigh nothing, carrying you everywhere with an almost absurd naturalness. Especially if you’re hurt, no matter how minor the injury. To him, any excuse is valid when it comes to taking care of you.

“Gris, darling, I already told you it’s nothing, I can walk on my own.”

“Then why would you walk if I can carry you? Besides, you should be resting. What if the stitches reopen from a bad movement? I know Eishia knows what she’s doing, but… what if?”

“Gris.”

“…Alright. I’m still carrying you.”

Boyfriend!Gris who has almost infinite patience with you. He listens to everything you say, even when you ramble or get lost in unimportant details. He doesn’t interrupt; he seems genuinely interested, as if every word you say carries weight.

Boyfriend!Gris who is incredibly attentive to small gestures like fixing your clothes without you noticing, discreetly cleaning a wound, handing you things you didn’t even ask for but clearly needed. His way of loving isn’t loud, but it’s constant.

Boyfriend!Gris who, although not possessive, is deeply protective in a very noticeable way. He doesn’t limit or control you, but he’s always close, always attentive. And when the situation calls for it, he stops being the kind man everyone knows and becomes someone no one wants to stand against.

You stared out the window. “Not really.”

“Right.”

Silence stretched through the rain that started an hour later. By the time you reached the campsite, the sky was gray and heavy, wind bending the trees overhead while Hobie unloaded supplies from the van with jerky, irritated movements.

“You brought one sleeping bag?” you asked.

“I brought two blankets.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“It’s camping, not the Ritz.” He laughed under his breath, humorless. 

““Camping isn't supposed to be irritating,,” you say you say.

“Irritating like me yea?”  For a second he looked like he regretted saying it too, but instead of apologizing, he shoved his hands into his pockets and walked off toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” you called.

“Walk.”

“Hobie.”

“Need air.”

You watched him disappear between the trees, jaw tightening. Of course he walked away instead of talking. By nighttime, the rain had eased into a light drizzle. The fire you started crackled weakly while you sat wrapped in a blanket, poking at the embers with a stick.

Hobie had returned an hour ago soaked to the bone and strangely quiet. You caught him staring into the fire, hair damp and hanging in his face and his fingers flexing against his knee.

“You do this a lot,” you said quietly.

“What.” His eyes flicked toward you.

“Leave.”

“When things get serious,” you continued, “you just disappear.”

Hobie looked away again. “That’s dramatic.”

“Is it?”

The fire popped and you swallowed hard. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Then tell me what is fair, Hobie.” Your voice cracked despite yourself. “Because I’m trying here and it feels like you’re always halfway gone before I can even reach you.”

His shoulders tightened beneath his jacket.

“You think this is easy for me?” he muttered.

“I think you won’t let me in.” 

“Maybe there ain’t much worth letting in to.”

Your chest hurts from that.

“Hobie…” He suddenly stood, pacing away from the fire.

“That’s the thing, innit?” he said, running a hand down his face. “You want all this future talk and stability and whatever else people are supposed to give each other and I…” 

He laughed bitterly. “I can barely stay in one dimension for a week.”

“I never asked you to be perfect.”

“No, you just want me to stay.” The way he said it, like staying was the hardest thing in the world and it made your anger falter.

You stood slowly. “Why does that scare you so much?”

“Because people expect me to leave eventually anyway.”

He stared out into the woods when he spoke again.

“An’ if I stay too long… people start needing me around. Start countin’ on me. Then one day I can’t be there and suddenly I’m the bad guy.”

You stepped closer carefully.

“Hobie.”

“I mean look at my life.” He gestured vaguely. “Whole thing’s unstable. Got nowhere permanent, always running off somewhere, always another universe falling apart.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “Not exactly boyfriend material.”

“You don’t get to decide what you mean to me.” The firelight flickered across his face, and for the first time all trip, he looked exhausted instead of defensive. You reached for his hand slowly and he let you take it.

“I don’t need perfect,” you whispered. “I just need you to stop acting like caring about you is some burden I accidentally signed up for.”

His fingers tightened around yours. For a second, it looked like he might say something sarcastic again. Instead he just stepped forward and rested his forehead against yours, rainwater cold against your skin.

“Tryin’,” he murmured quietly. “Swear I’m tryin’.”

The fire had burned down to glowing embers by the time you both finally crawled into the tent. Definitely not fixed, but softer around the edges and quieter. The rain had stopped completely now, leaving only the sound of dripping trees and distant insects humming somewhere in the dark. You unzipped your jacket slowly, trying not to think too hard about Hobie and the distance between you too.

The second you settled into the sleeping bag beside him, you felt the tension. Hobie lay flat on his back, arms folded over his chest, you frowned slightly in the darkness.

“Hobie?”

“Mm?” he hummed.

“You okay?”

“Course.” Lie.

You shifted onto your side to look at him better. Moonlight filtered faintly through the fabric of the tent, enough to catch the restless tap of his fingers against his arm.

“You look like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.”

“That obvious?” A quiet huff left him.

“To me? Yeah.”

“Just not used to this bit.”

“What bit?”

Hobie stared at the ceiling of the tent while he spoke.

“Usually when people get honest with me like that…” he swallowed once, “that’s it. That’s the moment everything starts falling apart.”

“Hobie…” Your chest tightened.

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Sorry. Bit broken, innit?”

“Don’t do that.” You immediately reached over and nudged his arm. Don't talk about yourself like that.”

He finally looked at you then, and there was something almost uncertain and vulnerable in his expression now. Outside, wind rustled through the trees.

Then, after a long silence, Hobie admitted in a voice barely above a murmur: “Thought if I came on this trip, maybe you’d realize bein’ with me is actually exhausting.”

“What?”

He shrugged one shoulder, avoiding your eyes again. “Would’ve been fair.”

“That’s what this was about?”

“Partly.”

“Hobie—”

“Got all these ideas about what people deserve, yeah?” he muttered. “Didn’t think you’d wanna keep dealing with this forever.”

“You don’t get to push me away and call it mercy.”

Something in his expression cracked, small and devastating. You could see the exhaustion in him and the constant preparation for abandonment, the expectation that eventually everyone would decide he was too difficult to hold onto.

Slowly and carefully, you reached for his hand beneath the blankets. His fingers twitched when you intertwined them.

“You know what your problem is?” you whispered.

“Got loads. Need specifics.”

“You have to trust me.”

He stared at you quietly, his thumb brushing once across your knuckles.

“Still here though,” you murmured.

His eyes dropped to your joined hands. Then, after a hesitation he shifted closer beneath the blankets till your legs tangled together and his forehead rested carefully against yours.

You felt him exhale long and heavy like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“Stay till morning then,” he said quietly.

“I will”

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