Ally's Corner

The entire lower block had been knocked through and combined. Massive, frosted glass windows glowed with the orange light of large hearths. The quiet hum of ovens made for high-volume production vibrated through the brick walls.

Curiosity completely overrode his exhaustion. Varka stepped into the alleyway and pushed open your heavy back door.

A wave of heat hit him as soon as the doors flung open, wrapping around him like a heavy wool blanket. A dusting of white flour drafted through the air. Four apprentices were moving in a flawles rhythm around you, sliding massive trays into the brick ovens and hauling out dozens of perfectly golden loaves.

And standing at the dead center of the chaos, directing the flow of the room with the precision of a battlefield commander, was you.

You weren't the stressed, overwhelmed baker he remembered. You stood tall, your hair tied back in a messy knot, and with a heavy canvas apron wrapped around your waist. You looked incredibly commanding, effortlessly orchestrating the production.

Varka was so completely captivated by the sight that he forgot he was blocking your doorway.

SLAM.

You slammed a large wooden spatula against a stainless-steel prep table. The crack echoed over the sound of the ovens burning.

"Read the sign on the door, mister," you snapped without even turning around, your eyes fixed on a batch of rising dough. "Health and safety regulations. No non-staff members in the kitchen during production time. If you want a loaf, the storefront opens at six."

Varka’s awe shifted very quickly to amusement.

"I don't think I can wait until six, sweetheart," his voice was loud and it rumbled through your production room. "And I seem to remember a time when you were practically begging me to buy your burnt scones just to keep the lights on."

You froze. The spatula slipped a fraction of an inch in your grip.

You turned around slowly, and your eyes widened as you took in the sight of him. Scarred, impossibly broad shoulders. The long teal coat. The wide grin that hasn’t changed the slightest.

"Archons," you breathed, your strict kitchen-commander persona slipping. "You're actually back."

"I am," Varka grinned as he stepped into your bakery, ignoring both your warning and the apprentices who were scrambling to get ouf the Grand Master’s. 

He looked around and the genuine awe settled back into his face. "What in Barbatos' name did you do while I was fighting for my life in Nod Kra? You bought the entire block."

"I expanded," you replied with a smile, your shock quickly wearing away as you settled back into your signature stubbornness. 

You crossed your arms and tapped the spatula against your bicep. "Someone had to secure the bread contract for the Knights of Favonius since their Grand Master decided to abandon his paperwork and go play in the north."

Varka let out a laugh that rattled the baking sheets on your cooling racks. "So you're officially on my payroll now. Excellent. That means I can grab myself a sweet roll."

He took another step toward the racks, but you instantly stepped into his path, pointing the end of the wooden spatula against the center of his chest.

"Absolutely not. I don't care if you can single-handedly wrestle a Ruin Guard, Varka. You are tracking alleyway dirt into a sanitized food prep zone, and you are entirely in the way. Out."

Varka looked down at the wooden spoon pressed against his chest, and then back up to you. He had spent the last several years commanding an army, dealing with diplomats, and fighting monsters. Nobody told him no.

He found your fierce defiance incredibly attractive.

"I'm not leaving this kitchen without tasting what's in those ovens," Varka purred, leaning down just a fraction so he was firmly in your space, his bright blue eyes entirely focused on yours. "So what is it going to cost me?"

You stared up at him, refusing to yield. You looked at his massive, heavily muscled arms, and then gestured over your shoulder with the spatula toward the dark cellar door.

You fought back a smirk as you replied, "The delivery cart from Springvale just dropped off twenty sacks of unprocessed wheat.” 

Varka’s grin stretched from ear to ear, “And?”

"My apprentices usually need a pulley system to get them up the stairs. You want a sweet roll, Grand Master? Grab a sack of flour, or get out of my kitchen."

He didn't hesitate for a second. He discarded his coat, kicked off his boots, and rolled up his dark sleeves to reveal the full length of his forearms and part of his biceps. 

"Give me some work boots and show me the cellar.”

— —

That one encounter with Varka led to a shift in your evenings that you couldn’t have expected.

It was 2:15 AM on a Tuesday. The heavy back door of your bakery didn’t just open – it groaned under the weight of a man who clearly didn’t know the meaning of a gentle entrance. The bell above the frame gave a frantic little jingle, and the smell of ale and the cool night air collided with the warm haze of your kitchen. You didn’t have to look up from the sourdough you were kneading to know who it was.

“You’re fifteen minutes late, Grand Master.”

The heels of your hands moved steadily through the dough, as you fought back a smile and the urge to look up at him fully. 

“I was beginning to think that Jean finally figured out how to lock you in your office.”

“She tried,” Varka’s voice boomed for the doorway. He sounded extra cheery, a sure sign that he’d spent the last few hours at Angel’s Share. “But she forgot that I know all the secret passages. Besides, the paperwork was starting to look at me sideways. I had to defend my honor.”

You finally looked up, brushing away a of lock of hair that had found its way out of your ponytail. Varka was leaning against the doorframe, his coat thrown over one shoulder, and his blonde hair a wild mess. His eyes were bright with mischief and there was a tell-tale flush across his scarred cheekbones.

You sighed, but also could no longer stop a smile from tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’re a drunk hazard, Varka. If you trip and fall into the industrial mixer, I’m not explaining to the Knights of Favonius why their legendary leader is shaped like a cinnamon twist.”

“I’m a master of balance,” Varka countered as he tossed his coat onto a hook mounted on the side wall. He rolled up his sleeve and stepped into your space, the heat from him rivaling that of the ovens. “And I’m the only man in Mondstadt who can haul those grain sacks around without needing a pulley system. You need me.”

“I need a sober assistant.”

Despite the teasing, you stepped aside to let him pass you towards the area where the heavy sacks of wheat were stacked.

“Do you even know what time your morning briefing is? Kaeya was lurking around my storefront at sunset, asking if I’d seen a ‘very large, very loud stray dog’ wandering around this area.”

Varka let out a laugh, the sound of which has become all too familiar over the course of a few weeks. He hoisted two sacks over his shoulders without so much as a grunt. “The briefing is at eight, sharp. Which means I have five hours to make sure that this bread is perfect, and another hour to find a very strong cup of coffee.”

You watched him move around your production area with ease – his physical power turning the most difficult tasks in your kitchen into child’s play.

“Besides, I can be late. Good for the rest of the Knights to be confused once in a while.”

You shook your head and allowed yourself to laugh at his absurdity. It had become a bizarre, whispered legend within the headquarters over the past month: the Grand Master was increasingly absent from his morning rounds, leaving Jean to run the drills with a deepening frown while the rest of the Knights traded confused theories about secret diplomatic missions or a new training regimen.

None of them suspected he was currently covered in flour, hauling sacks, and arguing with a baker about the proper way to knead dough.

“You’re going to get caught,” you teased, reaching out to swat his hand away as he tried to sneak a pinch of raw, unsweetened dough.

That didn’t stop him, and he continued to reach for lumps at different stages of the baking process just to sneak a taste. You left your station completely to basically play whack-a-mole with the Grand Master’s hand. 

Varka caught your wrist in mid-air, his large, calloused thumb stroking the pulse point of your hand. The playful glint in his blue eyes softened into something much heavier, much warmer.

“Let them wonder,” his voice dropped to a low and intimate register that made the heat of the kitchen feel like a secondary concern. “I’d much rather be the drunk hazard in your kitchen the the legend behind a desk. Now, give me the scraper. The dough isn’t going to shape itself. And I believe I’m owed a very large sweet roll for my services.”

— —

On one Friday, the back door rattled violently on its hinges before swinging wide open to reveal a soaking wet Grand Master.

The rain was lashing on the cobblestones outside, but Varka looked entirely unbothered. He shook the water off himself, sending a spray of rainwater across the threshold before stepping inside. This time, he radiated the sweet aroma of Dandelion Wine.

You’ve made the habit of greeting him without looking up. You tell yourself it’s to keep your focus on the dozen baguettes on the tray that you were currently scoring. But part of you knew it was to hide the ever growing smile that would appear on your face the moment he walked in.

“You smell like a tavern floor, Varka. And you’re tracking mud onto my clean tiles.”

“Diluc kicked me out,” he announced proudly while grabbing a towel from a nearby rack to wipe himself down. “Something about being a disruptive influence on the younger knights. Just because I challenged them to an arm-wrestling tournament.”

“A tournament that you undoubtedly won,” you replied, shaking your head in fond exasperation. “Do you at least remember why you came here? Or are you just looking for a dry place to sleep off the alcohol?”

“I came for the ovens, sweetheart.”

Varka didn’t even wait for your instructions. He squeezed past you, his chest brushing your shoulder, and headed for the ovens. He grabbed the heavy crank that rotated the internal shelves, a mechanism that usually required two of your apprentices to turn, and pulled smoothly. Weeks on and you still marvel at how he makes the tasks look so simple.

Varka’s voice rumbled through the room as always, as he squinted into the ovens to watch the bread rolls baking. “Jean sent a search party to the Whispering Woods yesterday morning. Apparently, I missed a very important meeting and they wondered about my safety.”

“Because you were here until six in the morning eating almond pastries,” you pointed out.

You followed him to the ovens and inspected the crusts. You reached for the crank to give it one more turn, and Varka wrapped one hand around yours to help you push.

“They’re going to realize that you’re hiding here eventually. I beg you to please not bring the knights to my prep tables.”

“Watch me keep them guessing,” Varka challenged softly, looking down at you through the haze in the air. His bright blue eyes were entirely focused, the wine doing nothing to dull his attention. “If they can’t figure out those meetings on their own, they deserve to panic. The bread, however, requires my utmost dedication.”

— —

At some point, Varka’s presence was no longer a surprise. It was an expectation. 

It was 3:00AM on a Wednesday. You were wiping down the stainless steel counters, exhausted and running on a few hours of sleep from the day before, when you realized that Varka had gone suspiciously quiet.

You turned back to find him sitting on a small stool that looked entirely incapable of supporting his weight. He had his elbows resting on his knees, and he was demolishing a slightly burnt cheese danish that you had intentionally left out for him. He looked drained, and for the first time, his aura was truly that of a man who worked two full-time jobs.

“Tired, Grand Master?” You asked him softly, leaning back against the counter and crossing your arms over your chest.

Varka swallowed the last bite of the danish and let out a heavy sigh. “There are visiting diplomats from Fontaine arriving tomorrow. Or… today, I suppose. They want to discuss trade and border security. It’s going to be four hours of people talking without actually saying anything.”

“And what time is the meeting?”

“Nine, sharp. In the main hall. Gotta look respectable.” Unlike most other days, he genuinely sounded distraught. You chucked as you watched him rub his crumb-dusted hand over his face.

“It’s three in the morning, Varka,” you reminded, “You reek of alcohol, you have flour in your hair, and you insisted on helping me load the delivery carts. Go get some rest today, or you’re going to be a disaster.”

He grumbled in protest, “I am going to be spectacularly late.”

You kept your eyes pinned on him as he stood up and closed the distance between you. Varka stopped right in front of you, effectively caging you against the counter.

He reached out, his fingers catching a stray lock of hair, and tucked it behind your ear. He left his hand hovering by your cheek, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheekbone and sending an immediate flush of heat up your face.

“The Knights are baffled,” he murmured as he pressed his hand firmly against your cheek. “They think I’ve taken up a secret, high-altitude training plan to prepare for another Abyssal threat. Jean is practically tearing her hair out trying to cover for my morning absences.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand melting away your exhaustion. Simultaneously, you fought off the urge to think of this as anything more.

“You’re a terrible commander.”

“Terrible, indeed,” Varka agreed with a smile. He held his hand there for a few more seconds before dropping it back down, and placing both hands on his hips. “However, I make an exceptional kitchen hand. Put me to work, [Y/N].”

— —

It was 5:00AM on a Sunday. Once upon a time, you had kept strictly to your schedule of closing up shop on Sundays to allow yourself a break – but sometime in the last few years, one week of allowing “just a little bit of baking” to happen on a Sunday morning quickly became habit. And because you didn’t want to force any of the apprentices to come in on what should be a day of rest, you usually ran the bakery on your own at a much lower production level.

In the last few months, you found yourself an extra hand on Sundays in the form of Varka.

The work was mostly done for the day, with the last batch of bread baking in the ovens. You let out a long exhale as you untied the canvas apron from your waist. Varka sat beside you, sitting on a wooden stool that he had practically claimed as his.

He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a small, heavy, and tightly-bound pouch and set it on the table with a thud.

You raised an eyebrow in question.

“Just something I picked up in Nod Krai,” he said with a grin, though his eyes were scanning your face thoroughly for your reaction. “Didn’t know what to do with it until now and kept it buried in my quarters. Honey, but tastes different. And a piece of unrefined Snezhnayan spice bark.”

You looked at the impossibly rare ingredients then at the man who had carried them across continents. Your instincts took over and completely overrode your exhaustion – you stood up, grabbed a mixing bowl, and got to work.

The dough took shape. The honey mixed in. The bark used to spice. You kneaded and folded the dough with care, and the kitchen filled with an aroma so incredibly warm that it made your head spin.

Once the dough was shaped, you set it on a basket and sat down beside Varka. It needed an hour to rise.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the distant howl of the wind outside. Your mind started to wander and you let yourself fully absorb the absurdity of what your life had become. Your were sitting in a dark kitchen at five in the morning, keeping watch over a rising loaf of bread with the Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius. You didn’t know what to call this. It wasn't a casual fling, and it certainly wasn't a formal courtship. You didn't go on dates in the city plaza with your arm laced through his. 

Instead, you were quietly carving out permanent space for a man who didn't fit anywhere else.

It dawned on you that you now actively anticipated the rattle of your back door in the wee hours of the morning. You had started ordering his favorite teas. You were anchoring him, and he was doing the same for you. It was a sanctuary built in the quiet hours before dawn.

When the hour finally passed, you baked the small loaf until the crust was a perfect, golden brown. As you pulled it from the oven, the intoxicating scent of caramelized frost-honey and smoke filled the air. 

You sliced the warm pastry down the middle and handed the larger half to Varka.

The size of his hand made the pastry look small. He took a bite, closed his eyes, and let out a heavy sigh. When he looked at you, his blue eyes held a reverence that made your heart race.

— —

That single pastry set a dangerous and highly illegal precedent. Varka had always treated the rules of Mondstadt as mere suggestions, and over the next few weeks, he effectively turned himself into a smuggler of culinary oddities just to see what you could do with them.

He would show up at 2:00AM, haul the sacks of flour from your cellar, then dramatically present his newly acquired prize on your prep table. 

Once, it was a heavy crate from Dragonspine filled with berries that refused to freeze, no matter how cold. You spent the rest of the morning turning them into a berry-filled galette that cleared the chill from his bones.

Another time, he walked into looking extremely smug while carrying a small box full of jueyun chillies and assorted flowers from other nations. On the bottom corner, you noticed several Liyue merchant stamps.

“Varka,” you sighed, “did you steal this from the Knights’ impounded goods?”

Varka, as usual, was entirely unapologetic. “I liberated them from administrative purgatory.” He spoke with a grin while he rolled up his sleeves. “Make me something spicy, sweetheart.”

You extracted what you needed and baked them into soft buns that Varka devoured by the half-dozen.

The most ridiculous offering came on a rainy Thursday. Varka ducked into the kitchen, soaking wet, and proudly placed a handful of glowing mushrooms on your cutting board.

You stared. The mushrooms pulsed with a faint, eerie light. You couldn’t even tell if they were edible. “What in Barbatos’ name are these?!”

“I have absolutely no idea.” Varka replied happily as he grabbed a towel to dry his hair. “I found them in a cave near Wolvendom. They just looked interesting.”

You wanted to scold him for bringing potentially toxic flora into a sanitized kitchen, but you couldn't stop the laugh that bubbled up in your chest. After a careful inspection to ensure they were just harmless fluorescent fungus, you baked them into a focaccia.

That same day, you sent the apprentices out of the kitchen so they could begin preparing the storefont and sat with Varka, a sizeable portion of focaccia still left on the table next to a pot of tea. The kitchen was quiet and so was Varka. His broad shoulders were relaxed and he stared into the glowing embers of the ovens. You wondered if the exhaustion of working two jobs was catching up to him.

You watched him for a moment, the nameless feeling in your chest swelling until it was impossible to ignore.

"Varka.”

He turned his head, his blue eyes focusing on you with that heavy, undivided attention. 

"Yeah?"

You hesitated for a split second.

"Why do you spend your time with me?" 

The words hung in the warm air, vulnerable and quiet. He kept his gaze on you.

"I mean it. You have an entire city that worships the ground you walk on. You have an army at your command. You could be anywhere, with anyone."

You looked down at your hands. Not knowing what to do with them, you started tracing a track on the wooden table from where your teacup sat to the edge of the table.

“I'm not complaining. I like having you here. I look forward to you barging in my kitchen every night, more than I probably should. But you're the Grand Master. And… I just bake bread.”

Varka didn't answer immediately. The air in the kitchen felt suddenly thick.

Slowly, he reached out, his large hands gentle as they caught you by the waist. With one smooth pull, he slid you off your stool and guided you to stand right between his knees.

“Because out there, I'm a monument,” Varka answered. HIs voice was quiet. Vulnerable. 

“Out there, I have to be the shield, the sword, and the infallible leader of the Knights. I can't be exhausted. I can't be unsure. I belong to Mondstadt."

Varka shifted his hold to wrap his arms completely around your waist. He pulled you flush against his chest, him still seated, and leaned his weight forward so he could rest his forehead gently against your shoulder.

His words were whispered now. His breath warm against your collarbone. And his voice stripped of all its usual jest and bravado. “In here, I’m just a kitchen hand. You don’t ask me for strategies or for salvation. You just ask me to carry the flour, you order me around, and you make sure I’m fed. You are the only person in this entire nation who looks at me and sees me.”

You could feel your heartbeat, and with how close you were, you were sure he could feel it too. You swallowed hard and instinctively let your hands come up to rest lightly in the think hair at the nape of his neck. As your fingers laced through his hair, Varka let out a long exhale. And with it, it felt as though the tension of years of leadership simply bled out of his shoulders.

For a while, he simply held you, with his face buried in the curve of your neck and your arms wrapped around his shoulders. You didn’t need to name the feeling. As you stood in the quiet of your kitchen, holding the physical embodiment of strength while he finally rested, you knew that you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Time passed in a blur. You weren’t sure if five minutes had passed or thirty, but the next thing you noticed was the first light of dawn trickling through the windows of your kitchen. Out front, your apprentices were unlocking the main doors of the storefront, preparing to greet the early morning rush of Mondstadt’s citizens.

You and Varka moved in sync. He stood up and helped you tidy up the kitchen, while finishing up the last of the focaccia and going through a few pieces of sweet rolls that he had stolen earlier without you or the apprentices noticing. When he was down to the last piece, he broke off a portion and popped it into his mouth before offering the rest to you. You took it, your fingers brushing his, and the quiet domesticity of the moment settled deep in your bones.

With everything clean and set, and with the last of the focaccia and stolen sweet rolls gone, Varka let out a satisfied rumble. He turned towards the massive sink in the corner of the kitchen, looking more relaxed than a man who was supposed to be leading a cavalry inspection in two hours had any right to be.

He turned the tap and let the water rush over his hands. As he scrubbed all evidence of your bakery off his arms, you grabbed a clean and slightly damp towel from the rack and walked over to him.

“You can wash your hands all you want, but if you walk into the Knights’ headquarters looking like that, Jean is going to know exactly where you’ve been.”

You stepped beside him as he turned off the tap, and he shifted to face you. He looked like a disaster. His clothes were dusted with flour and there was a smudge of soot on his collarbone.

“I consider it the uniform of a highly successful secondary career,” Varka grinned, completely unrepentant as he shook the excess water from his hands.

“I consider it a health code violation,” you countered, though your voice lacked any real bite.

You began to brush the flour from his chest with the damp towel. As you wiped the soot from his collarbone, letting  your knuckles brush against his bare skin. Just like he did earlier, Varka lifted his hands and placed them gently on either side of your waist.

For the second time that morning, you froze. The warmth of his palms caught you completely off guard. The towel stalled against his chest as you looked up at him.

Varka, too, was completely still. He didn’t tighten his grip or pull you closer. He just looked down at you, his eyes searching your face, checking if he had overstepped. It was a question, conveyed entirely in the way he kept his touch feather light, ready to drop his hands the second you asked him to.

As the initial surprise melted away, your shoulders relaxed and you offered him a smile. Your hands settled more firmly against his chest.

“You need to shake out your coat before you put it on, too,” you continued, your voice suddenly a lot softer than you intended in the quiet kitchen. “Otherwise, Kaeya is going to start asking why the Grand Master smells like roasted oats and—”

“You know,” Varka interrupted gently, a smile breaking on his face and his eyes full of fondness, "Kaeya actually cornered me yesterday. Asked if I was secretly building a retirement cabin out in Wolvendom, given how often I've been disappearing.

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I hate carpentry.”

You laughed. And with a gentle tug, he pulled you forward until you were flush against his frame. He paused one more time, giving you every opportunity to step back.

“Alright?” He asked. 

You looked up into his impossibly earnest eyes and nodded, completely enveloped by the heat radiating off him.

"Good," Varka murmured, his joking tone fading. “I spent my whole life dragging expeditions out into the freezing snow because I thought being inside the city walls was suffocating. Turns out, I was just hanging out in the wrong alleyways. Or maybe I just hadn't met a baker stubborn enough to put me to work.”

His smile was intoxicating. 

“I'm not looking for another frontier to conquer. I’m actually perfectly happy right here, hauling your wheat. If you'll keep me around.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. The fierce independence you had worn like armor for years completely dissolved under the warmth of his presence.

A matching smile breaking across your face. “The front door opens at six. But the back door... the back door is always unlocked for you.”

Varka lowered his head, closing the distance between you, but he didn't kiss you right away. He stopped just a fraction of an inch from your mouth, hovering there. His breath was warm against your lips as his eyes dropped to yours one final time in a silent request.

You answered by dropping the damp towel, sliding your arms up to drape around his broad shoulders, and closing the gap.

On occasion, you had let yourself wonder what Varka’s kiss might taste like. Sweet like the sugar that dusted your pastries, or warm and spiced. It was all of that all at once. You let out a soft sigh against his lips, letting your eyes shut close as you anchored yourself to him. Varka’s arms wrapped securely around your waist, lifting you just slightly onto your toes. He kissed you with the devotion of a man who had stopped running and realized exactly how lucky he was to have been caught.

When you finally broke apart, the morning sun was streaming fully through the frosted glass, bathing the flour-dusted kitchen in a brilliant, golden light.

Varka kept you wrapped securely in his arms, resting his forehead against yours as that familiar, wolfish grin returned in full force.

"Well, since we’ve established my permanent residency... does this mean I get free sweet rolls for life?"

Varka never failed to make you laugh. You reached up and brushed a final streak of flour from his cheek, before rising to your toes to press one more kiss to his lips.

Alhaitham paused, his glass halfway to his mouth.

He watched as you stepped inside, pausing as the doors shut to let your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the tavern. From a distance, Alhaitham immediately began logging the variables of your appearance, entirely abandoning his assessment of the tavern.

You were breathtaking, donning a tailored maroon dress the dipped low to your shoulders and stopped a few inches above the knee – entirely foregoing the standard Akademiya uniform. The fabric perfectly framed your elegant posture, one which Alhaitham would never admit to admiring and one that he instead catalogs mentally as just another fact about you. Your hair was pinned up with a long silver stylus, though the long day of had allowed a few dark strands of hair to fall loose.

You looked exhausted, brilliant, and entirely out of place in the tavern.

To Alhaitham, you also looked like the only variable in the room that was worth cataloging.

Your eyes narrowed as you finally spotted him in the shadows, and you began your march across the crowded floor. As you approached the table, you naturally moved to slide into the empty bench directly across him.

“Sit here,” Alhaitham instructed smoothly, his voice a low drawl that cut perfectly through the noise. He didn’t move to make space – he simply patted the few inches of wooden bench directly to his right. “The acoustic reflection from the far wall makes the opposite seat practically deafening.”

You paused, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his reasoning, but obliged and slid smoothly into the booth right next to him.

The physical proximity was immediate. And overwhelming.

Your shoulders brushed. Alhaitham noted the way that the faint, familiar smell of sweet flower and fresh dye mixed with your subtle floral perfume completely overrode the smell of the tavern. You noted how the fresh woody scent that wafted from his direction was unlike what you usually detected from the Scribe.

“I’ll have to admit, Alhaitham,” you spoke as you leaned back against the booth. You couldn’t hide the tiredness in your voice, but your eyes remained sharp and entirely focused on him. “When you suggested dinner, I didn’t expect you to pick the loudest, most chaotic building in Sumeru City. I thought you despised sensory overload.”

“I do,” Alhaitham replied calmly, turning his head slightly so that he was looking directly at you.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“However, the dim lighting in this specific corner perfectly highlights the gold flecks in your irises. I concluded that it was an acceptable trade-off.”

You blinked and your breath caught slightly.

My eyes..?

Your mind stalled for a second as you tried to determine whether the Scribe was simply stating a fact or openly flirting with you.

Before you could formulate a rebuttal, Lambad himself appeared at the edge of the table, bypassing the throng of waiting patrons. He set down a massive platter of heavily spiced meats, warm flatbread, and a second glass containing the same dark Fontainian wine, placing it right in front of you. You noted that there was no soup. No messy, inefficient broths.

Lambad gave Alhaitham a nod and immediately vanished back into the crowd.

Your eyes scanned the table and the perfectly curated, spill-proof meal laid before you. You picked up your wine glass, swirled its contents briefly as you took in the smell of the wine, before taking a small sip. You looked sideways at Alhaitham over the rim of your glass, “You pre-ordered? We haven’t even been sitting here for two minutes.”

“Waiting for a server is an inefficient use of time,” Alhaitham noted, casually picking up a piece of flatbread.

“You really hate wasting time that much?” You teased, with a smile finally breaking through your exhaustion as you set your glass down. “Everything always comes down to absolute efficiency with you.”

“Not everything,” Alhaitham corrected smoothly, his silver-green eyes watching the movement of your hand, then moving slowly up to your eyes. “I simply eliminated the wait time so I wouldn’t have to divide my attention between the tavern staff and you.”

“Oh? How courteous,” You feigned sass, even as your heart skipped another beat and as you fought off the heat building in your face.

He took a slow sip of his own wine, completely unbothered by the sudden flush in your cheeks.

“Not a courtesy. I vastly prefer looking at you,” he added, his tone as casual as if he were reading a grocery list.

You stared at him, trapped into the corner booth and realizing with a sudden, thrilling jolt of adrenaline that the Scribe didn’t invite you for a casual academic dinner. He had orchestrated the entire evening exactly to his liking, and you were possibly the primary objective.

As the evening dragged on, the noise in the tavern increased exponentially in volume. It was a chaotic symphony of clinking mugs and overlapping conversations. And because of the volume of the room, speaking at a normal conversational distance was increasingly, well, impossible. 

Alhaitham didn’t seem to mind. He simply shifted closer, resting his right arm casually along the curved wooden back of the booth directly behind your shoulders. He didn’t put his arm around you, but the warm presence of his arm was difficult to ignore. His right knee brushed against yours under the small table – and then, very deliberately, stayed there. The point of contact was entirely unapologetic.

“Three tables down, near the pillar,” Alhaitham murmured, leaning in so his voice vibrated right next to your ear, “the Rtawahist student staring into his ale.”

You took a sip of your wine to push down the meat in your throat, while following the line of his gaze. “The one who looks like he’s trying to mathematically deduce the volume of the contents of the mug?”

“Precisely,” was his reply, as he tore off a piece of flatbread with his free hand. “He has been staring at the same star chart for twenty minutes. However, the parchment is upside down. Based on the aggressive tapping of his foot and the ink stains on his left cuff, he is attempting to cram for Madam Faruzan’s mechanics practicum tomorrow morning.”

“A fatal error. No one crams for Faruzan and survives,” you noted dryly, reaching for a skewer.

“He will undoubtedly fail,” Alhaitham agreed, taking a bite of his food. “It is a highly inefficient use of his tuition. Your turn.”

You swallowed a bite of the skewer as your eyes scanned the crowded room. Your gaze landed on a loud, boisterous table near the center of the tavern.

“Alright. The merchant standing by the bar,” you kept your gaze locked and trusted Alhaitham’s eyes to track the same. You leaned an inch closer to him so you wouldn’t have to raise your voice, “The one currently buying a third round of drinks for that Eremite mercenary crew.”

Alhaitham’s eyes flicked over to the man. He scanned him for exactly three seconds. “He is attempting to project financial superiority to negotiate a cheaper escort contract. Loud, and incredibly transparent.”

“Transparent in more ways than one,” you hummed, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “He keeps adjusting his cuffs so everyone can see his tunic. He’s been bragging to the bartender about his ‘authentic imported Liyue silk’. But the drape is entirely wrong.”

Alhaitham’s eyes shifted to you, his brow raising in genuine curiosity, “Is it?”

“It’s clearly a standard Sumeru cotton blend.” Your voice carried absolute authority as your botanical expertise took centerstage. “He likely had it treated with a synthetic gloss to mimic the sheen, but you can tell by the stiff, unnatural creasing at the elbow. Worse, he used a cheap indigo substitute.”

You subconsciously raised a highly condescending eyebrow as you continued to scan the man from a distance, “By the time he sweats through the evening, the dye is going to bleed. He will have bright blue stains all over his neck and wrists by midnight.”

Alhaitham stared at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say a word. The corner of his mouth twitched, slowly curving upward into a deeply amused (and devastatingly handsome) smirk.

“Remind me to never lie to you about my wardrobe,” His voice was a low but amused. He spoke as he leaned his head back against the wood of the booth.

“Please. You only wear perfectly tailored garments,” you scoffed lightly. “It would be a complete waste of my diagnostic skills.”

Alhaitham hummed in quiet agreement as his left hand moved from the table to whatever small space existed between you. His fingers lightly, almost absently, traced the seam of your sleeve. 

“Your turn,” you challenged, hyper aware of the slow and deliberate brush of his fingertips against your arm.

His gaze once again fluttered around the room before landing somewhere close. “The couple in the adjacent booth. Vahumana and Amurta.”

You followed his eyeline, leaning another fraction closer to him to catch the angle, “The one where he hasn’t stopped talking since we sat down?”

“Precisely.”

Alhaitham was so close that you thought his lips would brush your temple as he spoke.

“He is currently attempting to impress her by reciting an entire dissertation on desert sedimentation. Unfortunately, he is citing a thesis that was debunked three years ago.”

You winced in mock second-hand embarrassment. You narrowed your eyes, tapping your index finger against your wine glass. “Oh, that’s painful. And she’s completely checked out. Look at the angle of her shoulders. SHe’s positioned herself exactly forty-five degrees toward the main door.”

“A highly tactical retreat trajectory,” Alhaitham agreed.

“Plus, she’s aggressively rubbing the cuff of her sleeve,” you added, catching the subtle destruction of the fabric. “It’s a self-soothing gesture. She’s fraying the linen thread while probably calculating how soon she can politely fake a migraine and leave.”

Alhaitham leaned his head in completely until you felt the tickle of his hair by your forehead, crowding your personal space under the guise of the loud tavern noise.

“A tragic failure of conversational economy,” he said as his eyes slid away from the doomed couple to settle on your profile. “If you intend to monopolize someone’s evening, you should at least ensure that the data exchange is mutually engaging.”

You turned your head to look at him, fully realizing how close his face was to yours. “And what is your assessment of our data exchange, Scribe?”

“Flawless,” he stated simply.

The moment the word left his mouth, a heavily intoxicated scholar stumbled backward from a nearby table, his weight tipping dangerously close to your secluded booth.

Alhaitham didn’t even blink. His right arm, still set behind you on the booth, moved closer until it was fully wrapped around you as he pulled you slightly closer to him and just an inch further from the intoxicated scholar. His left hand moved from the table in a flash, his long fingers wrapping firmly around your knee under the table to brace you, while he shot a single glare of absolute death at the stumbling scholar.

The drunk man took one look at the Scribe's eyes, visibly paled, and immediately scrambled in the opposite direction.

The threat was gone in two seconds. You felt Alhaitham pull away slightly – his left hand retreated back to his own lap, and his right arm momentarily released its hold on you from behind before his right hand found its spot back on your thigh where his other hand previously sat. His long fingers curved securely over your kneecap, his wrist resting casually against the fabric of your dress where it ended just above your knee. The heat radiating from his palm was electric.

Your train of thought was derailed. Spectacularly. You stared at the wooden table, fingers slightly tightening their grip on the stem of the wine glass. 

After several long seconds, Alhaitham reached out with his left hand to pick up his wine glass. He took a slow, unbothered sip. He leaned back in as he set down the wine glass. You could once again feel the ghost of his breath against your skin.

“You were saying?” He prompted softly, his voice dark and incredibly smug. “Something about the data exchange?”

You forced yourself to take a slow breath, refusing to break character despite the spike in your pulse, while his thumb traced a slow and entirely distracting circle against your knee. You were trying very hard to ignore the fact that you were currently losing a war against your own composure. 

“My data,” you managed to stay, voice still remarkably steady despite the current conditions, “suggest that you are incredibly adept at reading a room. But a tavern full of exhausted scholars and drunk mercenaries is a very elementary sample size, Alhaitham.”

You gestured around the room with your hand as you spoke. Without breaking eye contact, Alhaitham smoothly slid the heavy ceramic platter of meats a few inches to the left, saving the the cuff of your sleeve from dragging through a pool of spiced oil.

“Are you proposing a more advanced subject?” He asked, not flinching one bit at the challenge.

“Read me.”

You turned your body towards him, leaning into his space.

“You’ve been ruthlessly dissecting strangers all night. Tell me what your brain has deduced about the woman sitting next to you.”

A smirk slowly appeared on his face. “You project a baseline of absolute authority, which functions as your primary academic defense mechanism,” he spoke immediately and matter-of-factly. As he did, he reached across the table with his free hand to pick up the bottle of wine, and without eye contact, he refilled your glass to the optimal line before you even registered that your glass was nearly empty.

Alhaitham didn’t need to look you up and down. He didn’t need to pause and study your demeanor or posture. You sense, terrifyingly, that he had silently cataloged years worth of data on you without you realizing it.

He continued, “You weave natural textiles with a brutal exactness, but you purposefully use a smooth silver stylus to pin your hair up instead of the usual textured hair pin. You know the metal will inevitably slip and allow a few strands to fall loose by the evening. You deliberately engineer your appearance to seem slightly undone, because you would rather look exhausted than unapproachable.”

You sat perfectly still, the accuracy of his assessment piercing right through your armor. A sudden warmth blossomed in your chest.

“Furthermore” Alhaitham murmured, his eyes never once leaving yours, “When you are merely being polite to a colleague, you maintain unbroken, intimidating eye contact. But when you are genuinely captivated by a subject, your eyes flicker away briefly every thirty to forty seconds, you subconsciously tilt your head exactly six degrees to the left, and you trace a nearby object with your index finger. Tonight, your index finger has consistently traced the rim of your glass.”

You looked down.

Your index finger was currently resting dead-center on the crystal rim of your wine glass.

You immediately pulled your hand back, dropping it to your lap as a flush of heat rose rapidly to your cheers. You felt completely exposed.

But you were an academic just as respectable as he. You did not concede that easily.

“Very observant,” you managed to say while feigning competitiveness in your voice. Though you were entirely sure that he noticed the cracks in both your voice and your composure. “I suppose it’s my turn?”

The smirk never left Alhaitham’s face. He leaned back just a fraction to give you the floor, but the grip of his right hand on your knee tightened. “By all means.”

“You project a baseline of apathy. The untouchable and unbothered Scribe,” you began, mirroring his cadence. “You let the entire Akademiya know that you despise inefficiency. Yet, here you are, spending hours in the loudest, most chaotic tavern in the city, engaging in a highly inefficient and entirely un-academic conversation.”

“I would argue that this isn’t inefficient.”

You ignored his comment and what it meant, “I’m not done.”

He let out the closest thing to a laugh, “Carry on.”

You tapped your finger lightly against the base of your wine glass. “You ordered an expensive, vintage Fontainian wine, despite the fact that Sumerian wine is significantly cheaper, readily available, and pairs better with Lambad’s menu. I hypothesize that you ordered it because I made a passing comment about Sumerian wine being too sweet during a joint logistics meeting three months ago.”

Alhaitham’s eyes gleamed with undeniable thrill, but he didn’t interrupt you this time.

“And finally,” you concluded, leaning in close enough that your shoulders pressed firmly together, “Despite your notorious insistence on maintaining strict personal space, your body has been angled towards me the entire night and you have been invading my space entirely. And the light on your earpieces is dark. You turned the noise-canceling function off the moment I sat down.”

You tried very hard to read the look on Alhaitham’s face. It was somewhere between amused, satisfied, and thrilled at your exchange. A low hum of genuine amusement vibrated in his chest.

“A flawless counter-analysis,” he praised softly as he slid his right hand up your leg by an inch. “Your methodology is impeccable. I suppose I should match your level of detail with an even more detailed analysis.”

You raised your eyebrows at him, “More detailed?”

His reply came smooth, “Yes. Concerning the real-time data.”

Beneath the table, his grip tightened just a fraction as his fingers slid slowly, deliberately, along the sensitive line of your inner thigh.

You gasped quietly, a sharp intake of breath that was instantly swallowed by the Tavern noise.

“For instance,” Alhaitham continued, his voice dropping an octave as he seamlessly invaded the last remaining inch of space between you, “your heart rate increased the moment my hand touched you.”

You felt pinned by Alhaitham’s gaze, and you were incredibly aware of the heat of his hand.

“Your conversational pacing has increased by 10% as you are subconsciously trying to compensate for the sudden rush of adrenaline,” Alhaitham continued his observation, his eyes tracking every flutter of your eyelashes.

“You grip the stem of your wine glass tighter every time I lean closer. And your pupils are currently dilated at a percentage that has absolutely nothing to do with the dim lighting of this corner booth, and everything to do with my proximity.”

He tilted his head exactly six degrees to the left, a mockery of your own “captivated” tell.

You didn’t notice when his face got so close to yours.

His breath was heavy in your space as he spoke, “Tell me… is my data inaccurate?”

You didn’t pull away. Whatever facade you had both put up with the last few hours of banter dissolved, leaving behind an undeniable truth that neither of you had the energy, or desire, to hide anymore. 

A smile slowly broke through your expression. Your response came out as barely above a whisper, “The data is flawlessly accurate.”

Alhaitham’s smirk likewise softened into something you rarely saw on his face – a small but real smile, and a look for pure warmth. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, and his fingers stopped their distracting movements on your leg, settling into a firm and grounding pressure. He looked profoundly satisfied.

“I’d like to make my intentions clear,” he continued softly, and the opening of that statement caught you off guard, “I invited you here because I wanted you to look at me exactly the way you’re looking at me now… completely captivated.”

A small chuckle escaped you, and you fought back the urge to kiss him right then and there. “You are incredibly arrogant.”

“I simply know what I want,” he countered smoothly. He let the quiet moment stretch between you, simply enjoying the proximity, before he finally withdrew his hand from beneath the table.

He reached behind you to pick up your cloak from the edge of the booth and motioned for you to stand, “Come.”

You chuckled as you stood, giving him space to move out of the booth himself, before turning your back to him to allow him to drape the cloak over your shoulders. The brief brush of his hands against your arm was entirely deliberate.

“Terminating our little engagement so soon, Scribe?” You teased as you looked over your shoulder at him.

“I am proposing a relocation,” Alhaitham corrected. His hand came up to rest on the small of your back, a gesture that was equal parts protective and possessive as you began to navigate your way out of the tavern.

“My house is perfectly quiet, and I’ve made sure Kaveh isn’t around,” he added before you could ask where to next. 

You quickly learned that navigating a crowded area with Alhaitham glued to your side made for easy work. With the aura that he projected, the crowd naturally parted for you. As you approached the door, you instinctively reached for the leather pouch of Mora in your pocket.

“Wait, Alhaitham, we need to settle the tab,” your voice was just loud enough to be heard over the noise.

Alhaitham didn’t even slow his stride. He guided you smoothly past the crowded bar, barely sparing a glance at the tavern owner, who offered him a cheerful wave in return.

“It’s been taken care of,” he said matter-of-factly, pushing open the heavy front door and holding it open for you.

You stepped through the door into the cool evening air of Sumeru City, unable to hide the smile on your face. “Taken care of? When? You never left the table.”

“I paid Lambad before you even walked in,” he responded as he stepped out after you and let the heavy doors swing shut.

The solid thud of the wood instantly cut off the noise from the tavern. The sudden quiet of the city streets wrapped around you like a blanket. You stopped by the steps and turned to look at him with a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“You paid for a date before it even started?”

Your insides did something funny as you spoke. You weren’t sure if it was alright to refer to this as a date. He certainly didn’t ask you on a date – it was just dinner. The same way all your shared coffees and lunches before this were just that: just coffee, and just lunch. Not a date.

But Alhaitham didn’t seem bothered at all. The rigid, perfect posture that he usually maintained at the Akademiya finally relaxed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he breathed in the quiet evening air. “Standing around in a loud crowd arguing over who pays the bill ruins the momentum of a good evening,” he reasoned smoothly, “Besides, I was ready to leave. I didn't want to share your attention with that room for a second longer than necessary.”

You let out a soft but genuine laugh at his response. Of course.

“You are impossible, Alhaitham.”

“You appear to be quite attracted to 'impossible''.”

His lips turned up into a half-smirk, half-smile. He stepped up beside you, offering his arm in one fluid motion, “Shall we?”

You slipped your arm through his, leaning slightly against his side. The walk to his house was a stark contrast to the sensory overload of the tavern. You didn’t need to speak to fill the silence – the quiet between you was deeply comfortable. It was the effortless coexistence he valued above almost anything else.

As you approached the wooden door of his residence, the quiet anticipation that had been simmering all night was at its peak. Alhaitham withdrew his key, unlocking the door with a click. He pushed it open, revealing the dark and perfectly quiet sanctuary of his home.

The quiet stretched until you walked in, the ambient light from the street fading as the door clicked shut behind you, and the scent of old books and clean soap surrounding you completely.

You felt him step close behind you, and his hands found your waist from behind. He leaned forward until his lips were an inch away from your ear, “More wine?”

You nodded. The way his breath felt against your ear made you shiver, and there was nothing you could do to mask the response.

He chucked at your reaction as he pulled away. As he walked past you, one hand lifted up behind your head, deliberately finding the silver stylus that he had diagnosed earlier. With a smooth pull, he slid the metal free and your long, dark hair came tumbling down your shoulders. He kept the stylus in his hand as he glanced back at you before turning the corner to his kitchen, your hair rolling down falling across your frame exactly the way he had wanted to see it all night.

You sighed, one long exhale, and smiled. When you first walked in Lambad's Tavern tonight, this was certainly not where you thought the evening would take you. But you weren't about to complain.